Tuesday, December 4, 2007
More than just a Hangover by Abe Elmourabit
“Hey gorgeous”. I look worse than I smell. My face is covered with some type of sticky substance, my eyelids are swollen, and my lip’s are covered with scabs and dead skin. My hands instinctively reach for the faucet to wash away the fog. Nothing. “Not even the damn faucets work”. Silence The Hispanic folk singer who was woefully providing me with a soundtrack through my disorientation was abruptly muted. All of the sudden a feeling in my gut tells me I should have stayed passed out on the ground. And just like that it happens. My body is paralyzed. I fall to the floor screeching like a wounded banshee being tortured to death. That throbbing migraine intensifies twenty-fold as a sound so high it couldn’t be heard by human ears pierces my eardrums and sends me to the ground convulsing like an epileptic. In my psychotic episode I’m able to see three men approach me as if they had appeared out of thin air. They’re wearing industrial ear muffs to protect them from the invisible weapon that has turned me into a defenseless but wrathful beast. The faces are covered with a reflective mask. They attempt to pick me up but in doing so one of them gets knocked to the ground when he gets my foot lodged into his skull. I try to fight them off as much as I can but they easily overpower me and hogtie my limbs behind my back. The last image I see are the pile of used condoms staring me in the face as the room slowly begins to fade to black.