Missing Link.

The alarm started playing hard rock at 7:05am. Robert hit the off button, wondering why his classical music station had been changed. Maybe it was the cleaner when she was dusting.

He yawned and planted his feet on the floor. His clothes were hanging over the chair, no one would notice if he wore the same suit and shirt. He had a clean tie at work. It was about all he could muster. His head was pounding, and his eyes were cloudy. Gin and whiskey did not mix, and he was reminded that he wasn’t 25 anymore. His body was sluggish, and he struggled with a couple of drinks these days.

His keys and phone on the dresser were quickly shoved into his pockets. He slipped on his shoes by the front door and rubbed his eyes as he stepped out into the bright sunlight. His hand felt tight like he had on a glove that didn’t fit. He looked at them, and they were stained red like he had dipped them into paint, the dried colour pulled the skin taut.

He looked down, his white shirt was spattered in blood, and his grey suit jacket had two bloody handprints on them like he had wiped his hands down his clothes.

He looked around and realised that didn’t recognise the neighbourhood. The house he just walked out of wasn’t his. The car in the driveway wasn’t his.

Where the hell was he? And whose blood was he covered in?

Come on over and friend me on Facebook at Lisa Lancaster.
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Photo by Megan T via Flickr, licensed under Creative Commons

 

 

 

 

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