#it looks better in my googledocs font 😭 (always garamond)

[longeyelashedtragedy]

decided to write different scenarios in different styles etc to see what sticks

He wakes up with a hangover like a bloody teenager and a headache so bad it takes his vision a few seconds to kick back in.

Everything’s blurry–well of course, he needs his glasses and then he can sort it all out.  He can find the things in the dark with his hands tied, but his glasses aren’t there because–something’s not right.  The table next to the bed isn’t right.  It’s not his.

He’s too old to be kidnapped, too old, too dusty, the opposite of his old best friend Harry who’d probably get himself kidnapped and then charm the fucker into taking him right back home.  There has to be a normal explanation, so he feels around on the strange table, slapping his hand on things.  Pills stick to his hand.  He’s sweaty and they’re all over the table.

His hand hits a bottle of something, nails bouncing off with a clanging noise, and thank God, he feels his glasses next to it, and now his hangover's still there but the world is back.

There’s a lot to take in:

The shameful blue pills scattered all over the table that isn’t his.

His name printed right there on the open container.  He’d asked them if they could prescribe the damn things without his name on it.  He doesn't have that kind of power.

The bottle is one of his bottles of good whiskey.  The cap’s off.  It’s empty.

The bed isn’t his.  Too small.

It’s sunny–too fucking sunny for a hangover like this one–and he hears the familiar birds chirping outside.  He hears the shower.  Someone’s showering in his empty house. The sound is on the wrong side of the wall.

And there on the wall opposite him: paint chipping where things have been removed, but something’s still there.  An old card; someone’s drawn a football on the front of it, and the ink is faded but the words are clear enough.  Happy birthday, Frankie!

Another paper, also faded.  Brentwood School Latin Award, 1993–

When he realizes it, it hits harder than the hangover.  

What in God’s name is wrong with me?

Birds, shower, something buzzing on the floor over and over.  He rolls over to grab it, to shut the fucking thing off.  Rolling over makes his head pound.  It’s someone else’s phone.

Messages are pouring in on the screen and each one feels like it’s inside his head, kicking his skull.  He can’t see what they say, only who they’re from.  Frankie.  Frankie.  Frankie.  Frankie.  Frankie.  Frankie.  Frankie.  Frankie.

A pale neck, head thrown back to finish his good whiskey without asking.

You’re a terrible fucking person.  But you know that, don’t you?  You act like you know.  You’re disgusting.

And you’re a real bitch, a real fucking bitch is what you are, sweetheart.

Is that all you’ve got?  All that and those pills?  I see worse on the internet every week. There’s whole forums with jealous women talking about me.

What’s a forum?

Jesus.  What’s a forum.  Have you got any more whiskey? 

The shower turns off.

Frankie

Missed call

He wonders if he should pick up next time.  Now you want my attention?  Well, now you’ve got it.

Footsteps in the hall.

Are you happy ? I'm drunk enough to say fuck it. I know this is what you’ve wanted.  You’ve never shut up about it.

Well, she wasn’t wrong.  She’d always been smarter than Frankie’s last one–but stupid enough to ignore the poor kid this morning.  Frankie Frankie

Frankie

Missed call

He hopes he hadn’t gotten drunk enough to run his mouth.  Tell her the reasons.

The footsteps get closer.

He puts his head under Frankie’s old, yellowed pillow.  He’s always been a fucking coward.