Kenosha Writers’ Group

“The Worst Possible Thing”

Damn! That hurt.
That’s one knee and one hip in one move. So I’m not in bed. There’s nothing hard in bed. I’m on my feet and it’s night, or at least it’s dark. And it’s my dresser that attacked me, ungrateful chunk of wood. Spent weeks making that piece of junk look like an heirloom and it jumps me in the night.
Gotta get out of here. Right hand on the dresser, keeping it at a safe distance, I slide along its length and find the bookcase with my left hand. A couple more steps and I’m through the doorway and down the hall. I slide into the bathroom and leave the lights off. I center myself at the vanity and find the industrial strength mouthwash tucked in its corner. Cap in one hand, bottle in the other, I start the ritual of banishing morning mouth. Cycle upon cycle of swirling, swishing, and gargling, and I might be able to exhale without etching the mirror.
It’s time. I’m vertical and conscious, but not yet sentient. I need to be aware before venturing further into the day. I lean hard into the counter. Set a firm grip on it with my left hand, hold my head high and aim, eyes forward, towards the mirror. My right hand finds the wall, and I locate the switch. I hold my breath, stiffen, and flick on the lights.
Damn! That hurt. A creased, folded and flattened, squint eyed face of horror roars back at me. The worst possible thing to see in the morn, but a surge of firing synapses jolts me awake and I’m functional. Maybe…