Monday Morning

My heavily bloodshot eyes, like discoloured whites accidentally left on a sixty-degree wash, slowly open and wince at the morning sunlight peeking from under the blinds. The severity of the glare is intruding, as if the sun is a police searchlight locating a runaway convict. The mattress is lumpy and bits of the frame prod at my chest and legs like gnarled twigs and branches poking up from beneath the undergrowth. My arm aches and throbs from a night spent asleep on my side awkwardly and as I go to sit up I feel like an overburdened ship, struggling to retract its submerged anchor. To my great annoyance the cat’s litter tray has been upturned and its contents strewn all over the carpet. They lie dotted about like tiny white stars on a clear night. Taking care to avoid embedding pieces of the night sky into my feet, I head down stairs, accompanied by a hungry cat, who in recent weeks has developed an appetite rather akin to that of a lion then a kitten. As I wait for the kettle to boil, I absentmindedly run a hand through my short hair, which bristles to the touch like a defensive hedgehog approached by an unknown presence.

The kitchen around me is in a dire state of affairs, plates, pots and pans all stacked precariously in the sink. Extracting a culinary item without dismantling the whole pile is a dangerous game like a tense player removing a risky block in a game of jenga. The hobs resemble my eyes, crusty, dried and filled at the corners with some source of unknown gunk. Pouring the tea, I shiver in my shirt and boxers, my skinny, bony legs trembling like a farmyard chicken hopping about in early spring. My feet aren’t much better, the toes of which are so pale and devoid of colour they resemble frozen, oven cut chips. I scoop up my mug quickly, curling my fingers around its large ear shaped handle and hasten out of the dark, reeking room.

Climbing the steps is like ascending from a dank, dungeon and I fix on the upstairs skylight as my source of salvation. Lifting the duvet I get a hot whoosh of air like a pair of great bellows has just been blown into my face. I pull the covers right over myself and indulge in its warm belly. My prominent nose protrudes through the thin layer of material, like a jagged rock rising up out of a raging sea. My hairy feet stick out of the bottom of the duvet, the cracked nails of which resemble overly decayed gravestones, yellowing at the edges. I elbow my way out from underneath the covers, my long orangutan arms flailing around wildly. I sit up and scratch my bushy beard, it is extremely itchy and wild like an overgrown birds nest yet the hairs are dark and smooth like a panthers sleek coat. I take a sip of tea and glance around my messy bedroom. There are random piles of discarded clothes lay strewn about the floor like shed snake skins wilting in the sun. I take another sip of tea and wince as the hot liquid slips in the dried cracks on my lips, in the same way wet leather contracts in the sun.

© [Daniel Ashby] and [Ashby Tales], [2014]. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Daniel Ashby] and [Ashby Tales] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.


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