Obilisk begin again.

It was another grim awakening. The first breath I was concious of tasted like ash, and burnt its way down my fragile throat. I took another, slowly this time, and reached about, searching for my glasses. After a few minutes of blind scrabbling about, they were on my face. I sat up, and immedaiatly regretted it. The nausea in my stomach seemed to swell, only shrinking when I re-adopted the horizontal position. I think I dozed off again.

As I came to, I realised a couple of hours must have passed. The sun was higher on the other side of the thin curtains. I stared straight up at the cracked ceiling, and trid to piece together the fractured images I had of the night before. After a fustrating couple of seconds, I gave up and decided to let whatever memories there were surface gradually. I carefully got out of bed, the nausea almost worse than it had been earlier. I made it to the bathroom, supporting myself on the edge of the sink. After filling a glass of water, I downed it, feeling the delicously nuetral taste wash out my arid, stinking mouth. After an immensly relieving morning-after urination, I walked slowly back to the bedroom, hit the sheets again and fell to sleep in moments.

Surfacing once more, I stared at my clock for a few moments before realising it was now early afternoon. Clearly, it was time to surface. I also realised the only way I was getting rid of the horrible, unnatural sensation in my stomach was to fill it with something. I climbed out of bed again, staggered to the kitchen, and put some toast on. Deciding some tea would help, I started the kettle boiling and made the mistake of smelling the milk on the counter. By the time I’d finished being sick and made it back to the kitchen, the toast was already burnt. Sighing, I put some more out, and tried to waft the smoke out of the windows. Finally, I got to sit down and eat.

As I consumed my hard-won toast, I made a fresh attempt at recalling the night before. I had a sudden flash of dread, as I remembered that I had used my phone when I got home at some ungodly hour of the morning. Finding my battered mobile in the dank little hall, I picked it up and began the process of uncovering my shame. As I got to my outbox, however, the doorbell rang. Almost grateful for the excuse to leave that particular gem of joy for later, I got up and shuffled towards the door. As it swung open, I realised something was wrong. Very wrong. Once I realised what was out there, I shrieked like a girl, and slammed it shut. Fuck. I opened up the door again slowly and stared, worried, into the blank, expression-less side of the Obilisk.

It looked angry.

~ by grimbojones on June 7, 2008.