Unpleasant Awakenings Who: Lennon [Narrative] When: early afternoon Where: his third floor room Warnings: mentions of unsavory bodily functions, language
Lennon was having a dream about being in a giant warehouse that was also, strangely, the grocery store. It was vast and dirty and yet had bins of fruits, vegetables, pyramid stacks of canned foods. The problem was that Lennon seemed to be naked and was trying to hide behind various things as he tried to find his way to the bathroom. Every grocery store had a bathroom, right? Ordinarily being naked wasn't a problem for him, even if it was possible someone might see him, because he thought his body was quite damn fine. Except he felt like he was about to shit his pants... well, if he'd been wearing any. Also queasy, and yeah, this dream wasn't the best he'd ever had by any means.
He found the bathroom finally, but it looked as if a bomb had hit it. Glass and shattered porcelain were everywhere, along with huge clods of dirt, and in one corner was... a cactus? One of the giant motherfuckers that grew in places like Arizona. It had busted through the ceiling. Lennon was on the verge of taking care of his business anyway, deformed cacti and broken glass or no, when he jerked awake, his head throbbing. Even through a fairly wild college and young adult existence, he'd never felt this terrible even after drinking his weight in shots. This was fucking awful, and he was going to puke, possibly within the next couple of minutes.
The room he was in was completely unfamiliar, and the split second thought who the fuck did I go home with that lives in a place like this? flashed through his mind as he struggled up from the bed, almost not noticing the searing pain in his arm when an IV needle he hadn't realized was there pulled out of his skin. A sluggish trickle of blood made its way down his forearm as he desperately looked around for a bathroom and just about stumbled over a box sitting in the middle of the floor as he burst into an ungraceful run/shuffle at the most likely door, which was hanging open.
Lennon was disoriented enough that he ran face-first into glass: his tub/shower combo seemed to be surrounded by it. "Jesus," he breathed, and it could have been either an expletive or a prayer. Spotting the toilet, he dive-bombed for it so he could yurk up everything inside him that could emerge that way. And yeah, the only thing he hated more than puking was puking while clenching his ass cheeks together so he could at least finish one evacuation before another started. It had been years since he'd been quite this sick, and he might have cried a little as he sat on the throne with his face buried in his hands, dressed in an unfamiliar cloth hospital gown and nothing else.
Finally he felt able to get up, flush and clean himself up at the sink as he endured a headache of epic proportions. There was no aspirin, ibuprofen, Pepto or anything of the sort to be found, so after he was as clean as a makeshift sink bath could make him, he cautiously drank a couple of handfuls of water from the faucet and dropped the damn hospital gown to the floor so he could walk out into the main bedroom without a stitch on. Lennon glanced at the box on the floor with mostly disinterest, deciding he didn't care about it at this moment unless it contained a bomb. He couldn't even be bothered to look out the window; the only thing that interested him was crawling gingerly back into the bed and wrapping up in the covers. Maybe when he woke up again, life would be back to normal. Maybe this was all some kind of crazy hallucination.