Writing Prompt: The calendar says March 10th, but the last day you remember is March 1st.

The Guy in the Midnight Blue Suit

Nine days. I’ve lost nine days. The calendar on the wall in my apartment informed me. The last thing I remember is walking into O’Dell’s Pub and asking for a whiskey sour. I recall sitting in a corner booth people-watching that rainy evening. People flooded inside to avoid the incessant rain falling from the darkened sky. I suppose I was one of them. Usually, I walk past the pub because, after a while, I’ve come to realize that the relationship between drinking and myself is a toxic one. Whenever we meet, nothing good comes of it.

Yet, something drew me to the pub. I’m sticking with the rain. It’s a far more possible reason, and my head aches still. So, I didn’t want to think any deeper than I was at that moment. What was in that whiskey sour? I couldn’t recall underneath my fuzzy eyes. Come on, Jasmine. Open your eyes and wipe whatever imaginary soot inhabiting them. Let me retrace my steps. I sat at the corner booth. I babysat a never-ending drink. Or, was it two? A guy stopped over and asked me if I wanted company.

A guy stopped over and asked me if I wanted company.

A guy stopped over and asked me if I wanted company.

The words, “the guy with the midnight blue suit”, covered in white noise, danced in my head.

The guy in the midnight blue suit.

The guy in the midnight blue suit.

The faceless man spoke in my ear at a fevered pitch. What did we talk about? I thought it was something about pharmaceuticals and how we needed to reconsider our apprehension of them. He mentioned having a lab at home and wanting to discover the mind’s uncharted territory . Whatever it was, I can’t remember. He spoke English – British English – but he sounded like a martian. Or, at least, those whiskey sours made him seem so.

He knew my name. I guess I told him after all. We shared a laugh, I think. Then, he walked, or rather he carried, me home. Please don’t tell me I had another one night stand. I’m over thirty and that game is getting old and tired. My satin bedsheets lay in disarray. From what I can see, he didn’t rob me. This dizziness is killing my senses. Maybe some ice water will wake me up.

I start to head to my bathroom. But, I don’t make it. I fall out of my bed as though I was a year old and learning to walk again. What the hell? A puddle forms and trickles down my leg. Am I wetting myself? Seriously?

I wish I had wet myself.

I wish I had wet myself.

It was blood. Crap. I’m earlier than expected. However, it is not my period.

I am bleeding.

I am bleeding.

The blood’s source is far more sinister than a overanxious period, and within seconds, a soaring pain from my genitalia introduced itself. I want to cry out. The sound that emanates from the deepest part of my throat resembles that of a feeble dog, whining for his master to end the abuse.

I can’t stand. I can’t move.  The piercing pain cripples me. My phone is out of reach as it sits on the nightstand on the other side of the bed. All I can do is double down on the pain and accept my unknown fate.

I hear footsteps in my apartment’s hallway. I am not alone.

My eyes close. As I reopen them, I see shiny, black leather shoes stand near my head. They belong to someone tall, at least six feet, crunching over me. His hands are cold as they fondle my face. He leans into me with a malevolent stare.

The guy in the midnight blue suit.

The guy in the midnight blue suit.

He whispers gravely in my ear, with the faint scent of spearmint wrapped in a baritone, “Finally, you’re awake.”

I manage to raise my hand to cover my face. He grips me by my throat, asking pointedly, “Shall we begin….. again?”

Shall

we

begin

again?

 

 

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