Starstruck
The smooth cold surface offered a vague form of comfort, slightly soothing the pain in his face and arms. He made an attempt to lift his head, grimacing as he did, before deciding to place his cheek back on the cool tiled floor. Blinking his eyes open, the blurry surroundings slowly come into to focus. There are dark red markings on the painfully bright white tiles, instinctive curiosity makes him drag his fingers over the markings, jerking as a bolt of pain shoots down his left arm.
The markings are blood, he guesses his blood due to the taste metallic in his mouth. He reluctantly swallows. He runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth searching to see if any teeth are missing. Some of the blood has seeped into the grout between the tiles. Slowly rubbing his fingers across the the tiles the red marks remain, dried onto the floor. How long has he been here? Does blood take long to dry? He moves a hand to his head, briefly wincing as he touches a tender area, rough and crispy with dried blood.
The smell of mildew is in his nostrils. At the other side of the room there is a toilet bowl, he wants to throw up. In his current condition it feels a mile away rather than eight feet. Looking up the edge of the sink peers over the top of the worktop. He grabs for the edge of the sink and he tries to pull himself up into a sitting position. A cry of agony rings out as he twists his body round.
Memories were thrown up, the time he was punished for daring to stand up to his high school nemesis, who had regularly relieved him of his dinner money. He had spiked the bully’s drink, stripped him naked and let him wake up under a table in the middle of a crowded dinner hall. In revenge the bully’s older brother had gotten involved, the sound of his arm cracking, crushed in a door, still sounded fresh in his memory.
Nothing was ever proven about the spiking. The brother was excluded from school, due to being caught in the act by a teacher. The bully however left him alone after that, deciding that he wasn’t worth the trouble. Last he’d heard about either of them was a rumour that the brother was inside for G.B.H.
The pain was worse than the broken arm; a different memory came to the fore. A few years ago, his failure to embrace monogamy had caused a problem. The result was repeated attempts to kick off his testicles by his wife Mary. As the memory fades the pain he can now feels easily eclipses the pain from that particular scene, sadly though, it doesn’t fade.
He feels worse sitting up, momentarily pondering lying down again. He glances over at the stained tiles and then down at his clothes, covered in blood. He wonders where things went wrong? Holding tightly to the edge of the sink, agony throbbing through his muscles, riding a wave of exhaustion that almost brings him back to the tiles. He fights against it with every ounce of strength he doesn’t have. Letting out a howl, he throws himself back up on to his feet, nearly losing his balance, gripping tightly onto the sink to stop him crumpling into a heap. Lifting his head to the mirror to see the extent of them damage. Upon seeing his reflection he almost falls back in surprise, not quite sure if it is the pain or the sight of bloody mess that greets him.
He’d never intended for any of this to happen, he should have stuck to punching Big Brother contestants and TV talent show rejects, at least if he had, he would not be here. Perhaps he’d have been caught and sitting feeling sorry for himself in a police cell, which would be infinitely preferable to this.
