It’s early, the grayish light colours the world in monotones. His shirt feels rough and stiff as though it's been over starched—then he notices the stains, the russet red of dried blood, the smears and hand prints on his jeans. He struggles upwards but the world rolls sluggishly sending him back to the dirty pavement, black static roaring at the edges of his vision.
He smells of urine, copper, and cigarette ash. As the slow waltz in his head subsides, he tentatively runs a hand over his bloodiest areas. Old war films come to mind, men with their intestines looped like tinsel through their clutching hands. What if his intestines tumble out of hole he fails to detect. He is thorough but finds nothing, no gaping wound, no punctures.
The sun is a little higher, the day slowly warming up. As he scans the unfamiliar surroundings wondering how he arrived he suddenly realizes he doesn’t even know his name. The knowledge is like a bolt of steel slicing through his heart.
He finds a cellular phone in his back pocket, but no wallet. There are photos of a middle aged woman with short hair and kind blue eyes. He clicks through them, watches her life stagger past; here with young children, here feeding a Yorkshire terrier, here at a birthday party, here with an older man, his arm wrapped around her waist, his head tilted to rest against hers. Who are they?
There is a preset titled 'home' and he dials it. The line connects and a woman's breathless voice says, "Henry, thank god, where have you been?"
He feels as though he's standing on the edge of a precipice.
"Henry?"
He hangs up.
Words: 285
Image courtesy of: Livion-stock
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