Aldwin Arthur Hathaway IV (closetedpsychic) wrote in light_of_may, @ 2012-01-28 23:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | #solo, 2009-08-30, aldwin |
Going from road to road, bed to bed, lover to lover and black to red
Who: Aldwin mostly
When: Mid-morning
Where: A garden somewhere
For about an hour or so the vodka bottle had been his greatest friend. The greatest friend he could ever wish for. Greater than a puppy. Or a pet koala. Better than an armadillo... wearing a sombrero. His greatest friend and ally. Old comrades who fought battles alongside each other. Together through heart ache and break, the lows in life. Soul mates on some level somewhere. There could only be one vodka bottle, he had decided. He was an albatross, pairing up for life. This was his drink. This was the one.
That was until the bottle emptied and energy fled his weary body. Dusk turned to night, night turned to dawn. Dawn faded and day reared its ugly head. The inside of his eyelids turned red and the heat of the sun smothered his face. He choked back the tickle in his throat, the buzz in the pit of his stomach. The storm raging inside his head. Aldwin brought a hand over his shut eyes, and made a sound not unlike a faulty washing machine coughing itself to death. A kind of “mmmrrgggghhhcchhhh”. He tongued the inside of his mouth. Desert dry, a faint echo of vodka and something else. Not vomit - that taste he knew all too well - something more like salad. Tasteless but vastly unpleasant. Grassy. No, not grassy. Grass.
He pulled one eye open with the hand covering his face. From what he could gather, he was laying on his side. In the middle of the garden. Back garde-- No, front garden. In front of the house. A frown carved itself into his features. He heaved himself into a position that felt like sitting up. Where he had been laying there was an Aldwin grass-angel, perfectly formed. Blinking took effort and the sun was still in his eyes, sleep lingering there too. He patted the top of his head gently, then beat down the manic array of hair that had wound itself into a mane during the night. Then his hands wandered over his person.
Sadly, Aldwin had discovered clothes were an important thing to have when one woke up after a night of continuous alcohol consumption. At this moment in time clothes were what Aldwin lacked. He had some kind of bed sheet though, and one shoe and one sock. A small smile wriggled around in his head, such an outcome was more than any true party-er could hope for, especially considering the state he figured he had wound up in last night. His shoulder twinged and after some prodding it occurred to him that it was fairly badly bruised. Other than that, however, everything seemed to be good. He ignored the worry the bed sheet seemed to spark in the back of his mind.
The whole business of making sure he was still in one relative piece must have taken several minutes. It was during this time that he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the layout of the Hathaway gardens had changed in appearance somewhat. He didn’t remember that fountain, for one thing, not the rose-bush-sculpture-thing. He raised an eyebrow and looked around. This didn’t really look like his house either. That wasn’t the architecture of the house. That wasn’t his mother. Those weren’t the family cars. That wasn’t his mother.
Aldwin hauled himself to his feet, his more vulnerable areas protected by a thin layer of cotton, his hand blocking the sun from his eyes so he could properly see the person approaching. There was a woman, middle aged, and who he assumed to be her husband. At one glance Aldwin thought he saw the man carrying something, something shotgun shaped. But that was ridiculous. There was no reason for this man to have a shotgun at this moment in time. A strange thudding tap began to travel across the garden, and Aldwin searched for the sound. He found it in the shape of a women around his age, maybe a few years younger, in nothing but her underwear and banging on the window. This was confusing to say in the least and Aldwin was perfectly ready to enjoy the view when he discerned the expression on her face, and realised the reason for the shotgun-shaped, well, shotgun.
In retrospect, dropping the sheet and fleeing the grounds of the house, arms flailing, had not been Aldwin’s finest moment. Screaming like some kind of adolescent banshee as he ran hadn’t exactly screamed Casanova either but, naked as the day he was born or not, when Aldwin reached the gates of the Hathaway household his head was held high. He had escaped a fate worse than death or vampirism or syphilis. He’d escaped from parents.