The Morning After by Kev Massing

I wake up to the chilly sensation that can only be experienced after a night of sleeping drenched in your own sweat. I’ve had the dream every night for the past 15 months and not once has the vividness of these awful images dimmed in my mind’s eye.

            I close my eyes and sit up. Head resting on my forearms, which in turn are rested on my knees, I take deep breaths until my heartbeat slows and my mind clears. I have no idea how long this takes, but it seems to me that it takes a little longer every day.

            Once calm, my senses begin to function again and I am reminded of the cold puddle I am sitting in, which I am now certain cannot be sweat. Upon opening my eyes, my calm state is obliterated with a mortar shell of panic and realization. The chill that crawls up my spine makes this  morning’s prior one feel like a cool breeze.

            I am sharing this sweat and piss riddled bed with the corpse of what was once a beautiful young woman; body taut yet twisted, like some kind of warped 2x4.

            The next thing I know I’m up to my chin in porcelain, every fluid I have spewing from my mouth with the viciousness of a geyser. There is neither a tear left in my eyes nor any mucus left in my nose. Rather, it has all gathered on my face and somehow my hands.

            I decide that the tub would be the best place to clean myself off.

            Bad Idea.

            An unforeseen round two erupts from my esophagus and lands with a splash at the bottom of the tub. Great, as if I hadn’t made a big enough mess here already.

            I clean myself off and venture out into the common area of the apartment to see if any of her roommates are awake. I doubt anyone could have slept through the guttural performance I just put on in the restroom. I scan the living and dining rooms quickly as they are technically the same room. I walk into the kitchen.

            All Clear.

            My heart is seemingly trying to escape my chest and its rampant beating is only worsened by  what my eyes show me next.

            Three doors. Her room, the bathroom, and one last unanswered question at the end of the hall.

           
            By the time I reach the door my palms are saturated. I reach my left arm out towards the knob slowly. The sun shines in from her bedroom window on my right, reflecting light on the doorknob and my glistening hand alike. In rolls a stagnant wave of putrid air from the bed. I almost throw up again.

            I reel in a deep breath, grab the handle, and yank the door open. I’m instantly hit in the face by some flying object.

            Shit.

            My eyes well up with more tears that I don’t want but can’t control. Mucus has announced it’s  return to my nose and is leaking down to my mouth. Whatever the hell that was just hit me square in the eye. Momentarily disoriented, I still manage to get my non-throbbing right eye open enough to see the face of my object-tossing adversary. I’m startled into laughter by what I see.

            It’s a closet.

            Nothing but a damned linen closet. I must have opened the door too quickly, causing a belt to fly off the hook on the inside of the door and hit me in the face. I stare at the belt on the floor and shake my head.

            My breathing begins to slow down and with that my brain appears to have returned from its brief hiatus. Suddenly a feeling rushes over me that I can best describe as the one a procrastinating college student gets when he finds out his midterm has been pushed back a week.

            I now have some time. No idea what to do with it, but it’s there nonetheless. This is good. I need time right now like a man on death row needs it, and if I don’t put my time to good use, that’s exactly where I’ll end up.

            No need to trying to search for clues of my innocence. I have no idea what happened here last night, but innocent or not, I'm certain I don't want to be here to plead my case with the detectives. Guilt sinks into my stomach like a rock. What the hell happened? Could I have done this?  Maybe in my blacked out state, my drunken subconscious did what I would never do. Maybe I'm one of those monsters you hear about, quietly waiting to reveal itself. Maybe I've been set up,
            Maybe, Maybe, Maybe. 

            I forcefully shake my head. Such thoughts are a waste of my time. I cannot solve the ‘whodunit’ mystery, What I need to remember is where I went. And who was with me, Who saw the two of us together last night. My hand has been forced. I have to cover all my tracks and determine if there is any way to buy myself some more time.

            I’m no fool; there is only one possible outcome for this story, and it features me sitting in a human bug zapper.

            Time. I have to find a way to give myself even more of it. I frantically search her room for evidence of my my presence. I don't find any, but I don't have a forensics kit handy either. Hustling back to kitchen, I find some ammonia and bleach under the sink. I carry both with me back to her room, unsure of which to use, but certain that I've seen one used to clean up a crime scene in a movie before.
           As I unscrew the ammonia bottle, a series of beeps startle me, causing the bottle to escape my grasp. I quickly scoop the emptying bottle from the floor before searching for the source of the sound. The pace of the beeps increased as I crawled to her nightstand. A half opened laptop lay next to it; placed near her head underneath the bed.
          The blue light of the screen flickered with every new sound. Hastily, I grab a handful of tissues before using them to open the laptop further.
          To my surprise, she had left her FacePage home open. An icon on the screen informs me that its's only 7:10 in the morning. Why is her page blowing up so early? One click on her notifications gives me my answer. All thirty three notifications were messages from a guy named Jack.
   
      -Wow. You blocked my phone number?
      - I know you don't want to talk right now, but I need my stuff from your apartment.

I scroll past some more hopeless begging until I get to this mornings batch of messages.
   
      - This isn't fair, you can't just have my shit,
      - Just leave it out in the hallway and I'll pick it up. You won't have to talk to me.
      -  Okay, fine. I'm coming over for my stuff. Please have it boxed up.

           Shit.
I'm pacing the room again, no idea what to do.
           Back to the plan.
I dump all the bleach  and the remaining ammonia in the bathroom. I wipe every accessible surface in a matter of five minutes, bringing the tissues with me as I exit the front door. I concentrate on looking casual as a head down the stairs.
       
            Entering the lobby, I'm stopped dead in my tracks.
 In my state, I didn't even hear the sirens.
 As the officers bolt towards the lobby elevator, their sound became deafening.

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