The Seventh Sense

by LikeaSir

Of hangovers, and broken minds.

As conciousness began its daily conquest, I became gradually aware of an intense, and unpleasantly familiar nausia.

Wow... I... wow, ok, maybe an unfamiliar nausia. Definitely much worse than usual, at least. How much had I drunk, last night...? A flagrantly excessive quantity, if the pounding between my ears was anything to go by.

Salvation awaited me in the bathroom cupboard, and salvation's name was Ibuprofen. I lay motionless, languishing feebly until I was satisfied that salvation was probably worth the effort. All I needed to do now, was to work up the courage to actually move.

With the happy thought of pharmaceuticals in mind, I opened my eyes, rolled out of bush, and smashed heavily into mossy rock. Huh. That's definitely new. Normally, it's 'open eyes, roll out of bed, and smash heavily into carpeted floor'.

All thoughts of salvation disappeared as I gazed blearily about. Yes... yes, that's definitely new. Last time I checked, my bedroom didn't have a horizon.

Understanding dawned finally. Bloody bastarding Sean. Just my luck. Clearly, the world's worst roommate, has dragged my unconsious carcass from the comfort of its bed, and launched it unceremoniously into the wilderness. I looked down at myself. I wasn't naked, at least. A slack set of pyjama bottoms and an unwashed bathrobe that wasn't mine, were more than sufficient to preserve my modesty. Ah well, I suppose he could've done worse, the twat. Last stunt he pulled, saw me duct taped to a lamp post. That time, without clothes. At least now, I have a bathrobe that smells of arse. Thank the heavens for small mercies, I guess. I suppose it'd come as a massive surprise to you to hear that this guy is also my best mate, and he pulls this sort of nonsense with tiresome regularity.

Man, this was such a pisstake. I'd show him. I'd show the bastard. I'm made of pretty stern stuff. When I get home, I'll raid his side of the fridge, and spit in his shower gel.

That thought raised a pretty fair point actually... where was home? I glared about me, searching for some landmark, some familiar place by which I might begin to orientate myself. There was plenty to see, and to my chagrin, none of it was particularly comforting.

The most immediate landmark, was a craggy mountain - not a particularly large one, but slab sided and snow capped - imposing enough, as mountains go. It's a start, and not a good one, at that... after all, the distance from my house to the nearest mountain was... what... twenty something miles, I think? And besides, the mountain I had in mind looked sod all like the one in front of me. 'Excellent' I thought to myself, 'I really am in the arse end of nowhere'.

Resigned to my predicament, I sat down to nurse my head (after all, I still had a hangover), and contented myself by looking around a bit more. Just for something to do, y'know? I mean, I was absolutely certain by this point that Sean would give me an hour or so to stew in this admittedly delightful bit of countryside, and then leap out from behind a tree, and come bounding over, hoohoo haha'ing to himself over a job well done.

I peered morosely at a murky copse of nearby trees, searching for likely suspects. Yes, there were definitely a few there that were uuh... 'broad' enough to hide Sean's jovial bulk. I raised a middle finger at them, incase he was watching me from their shadows.

After a little more morose peering, I'd spotted a few more trees. Indeed, a whole forest of them - dense, and foreboding. From their shadows, waddled a diminuitive dog made of tree.

Ah, yes. A dog. Made of tree. Immediately, it made the top of my list of things that were both new, and disconcerting. It stared at me woodenly, as if to prove a point. I stared back, mildly appalled. 'That just isn't possible' I thought to myself, as with a satisfying little *pop*, it winked out of existence.

No.

No, absolutely not.

My mind spent a moment basking in outright disbelief. 'Well bugger me', I heard myself think. 'The bugger literally disappeared! I SAW it! Or... rather I didn't see it?' I mulled that revelation over for a while, staring fixedly at the spot the bush dog had, until moments ago, very definitely occupied. Nothing just... disappears into thin air like that, surely? 'That just isn't possible', I thought to myself.

*...pop*

'It's back again' my unhappy brain observed. For its part the tree dog (who indeed had reappeared) contrived to look uncertain. Or as uncertain as something can, with a wooden face. To my relief, It turned about, and bashfully waddled back into the gloom from whence it came.

If you expected a less... tempered... reaction out of me, then clearly, you have never had a hangover before. If you had, you would know damn well that even if the world is ending about you, the last thing you would do is go leaping and bounding about in a panic, screaming at the top of your lungs. Besides, if your hangover is sufficiently bad, the world is pretty much ending anyway; any activity you partake in will only hasten your inevitable demise.

Suffice it to say, I had seen some trees, that were made of tree. I had also seen a dog; it too was made of tree. This dog came, and went, and came, and went again. It was nowhere to be seen, thus, things were the same as they were before its arrival. This was good. This was a good thing. Everything was definitely ok.

My thoughts of disappearing tree dogs desperately tried to supress themselves, and panic began creeping about in the dark recesses of my mind.

Predictably, supressing these thoughts didn't work - and I proceeded to do just about the worst thing I possibly could have done, given my situation. I stood up, and tentatively leaping and bounding about in a panic, I screamed at the top of my lungs. In a very natural turn of events given the circumstances, my already pretty vile smelling bath robe soon had a fresh (for want of a better word) sputtering of vomit down it, and my head pounded with the most exquisite agony. That's probably about the time the sensible part of my brain decided enough was enough; and I passed out.

Author's Note:

I figure if I write multiple bad stories, the motivation to finish at least one will be increased. Maybe.

Comments

[Noobly60]

Hmm.... i wonder what's he gonna do?

[RandomGuy101]

10236131
Try and get rid of his hangover, for one.