|Brian Jenkins | Dr. Jekyll (tooth_fairy) wrote in bellumlogs,|
@ 2010-06-14 13:58:00
|Entry tags:||dr. jekyll|
What: Waking up and making a horrible discovery
When: Monday morning (the morning after Hannah Is Awesome Forever)
Warnings: Emo, nausea, panic, and paranoia.
The blaring of his alarm clock came at 6:45, just as it did every morning. Brian grunted, waving an arm about blindly until he could feel the clock's plastic casing against the pads of his fingers. He twisted, rolling over on his side until he found the "off" button. After pressing it, he laid still for a moment, eyes slowly cracking open as his bedroom swam into view. Though he rarely felt well-rested, this time he felt worse than usual. It was beyond a sleepless night. As he sat up, the ringing in his head almost convinced him to go back to sleep.
It felt like he had been hit by a truck.
Groaning, he rolled out of bed, tottering unsteadily over to the bathroom. As he walked, he noticed that he was wearing the clothing he had worn the day before. But hadn't he changed into a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants for bed? Scratching his head - and stopping when he realized that the action was agonizing - he lurched into the bathroom. The tiles were cool on his bare feet, and he hopped slightly as he approached the mirror.
When he turned on the faucet, he ran his toothbrush under the stream for a moment before squeezing a log of toothpaste over the bristles. Turning off the water, he began to brush. This was normal. He felt at home in a way, despite the pain, as he raked the brush over his teeth again and again, a repetitive motion that kept him rooted to reality. Eyes closed, he counted the strokes. When he reached twenty-five in the lower left quadrant, he moved to the lower right. Then the upper left. Then the upper right. Puffing up his cheeks, he spat out a stream of foamy toothpaste and saliva, rinsing out the sink and his toothbrush as he glanced up into the mirror.
His heart stopped.
Not bothering to turn the sink off - sustainability would have to wait - Brian leaned forward, eyes growing wide as he stared at the mask that used to be his face. He knew it was his face, he knew that the features belonged to him, but there was something about it that was unfamiliar. Trembling, he reached up and brushed his fingers over a blue-black bruise that consumed his left cheek. It bloomed over the bone and extended down to his jaw, contorting the side of his nose slightly with its swelling. He had gone to sleep fine, and woken up with the left half of his face swollen and bruised.
As he marveled at his face, he made the mistake of looking down at his arms. Angry red lines marched up and down his forearms, some of them broken by streaks of blood - his blood - where the skin had been broken. He felt a hysterical sound escape his throat as he stared at them, his entire body shaking. How had this happened? He had just gone to sleep, he spent the evening going over patient records! His arms looked like he had lost a fight with a cat that had been armed with a machete. As his gaze traveled up his arms, he felt his stomach clench. What else had happened to him?
His fingers hooked in the hem of his shirt, and almost against his will, tugged it over his head. He cast the shirt aside, stepping back to see his bare torso completely in the mirror. At first, he could only stare. His pale skin was marred by bruises and abrasions, some swollen and some merely ugly in color. It looked like he had been savagely beaten, from his belly button up to his collar bones. His jaw dropped. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think.
Nausea overtook him.
Gagging, he fell to his knees and crawled to the toilet. His stomach began to flex and clench, and a wave rippled through his body. Just as he gripped the bowl of the toilet, a spray of yellow bile gushed from his throat. Hacking, he sputtered, spitting out every drop of that horrible, acidic gastric juice. Tears stung his eyes, though if they were from the pain of vomiting or the horror of his body he wasn't sure. Gagging, he continued to hack up little waves of bile over the next ten minutes. Every time he thought he had stopped, he'd start again.
Finally, he spat the last of it out and stood shakily. His weight was unsteady on his feet, and he nervously brushed his teeth again. He wasn't sure what to think now. Should he call his doctor? Should he stay home from work? Should he pretend that nothing happened? Questions swam about in his head, and it was all he could do to keep from drowning.
Once his teeth were clean, he stumbled into the bedroom, and made an executive decision. He would go to work as if nothing had happened. He would go on with his life and pretend that things were fine. Later, he'd record his injuries in a video log. But for now, he needed to get dressed and find a way to cover up the shiner on his face. As he wiggled into a pair of pants, his gaze fell on the computer. It was worth a shot. He certainly couldn't be any worse off than he was now, so what was there to lose?