A good fight

               I half-open my eyes, still groggy, still nursing a headache. I usually wake up after brushing my teeth, just in time to stop myself from going to work in my underwear. They might not care but I’d surely be feeling the draft. Hell of a time to catch a cold, this is. This time my brain went on overdrive as soon as I got up. Something feels wrong, I don’t know what or how or why, it’s how a disturbance in the force I always thought would feel like. Some unexplained and unavoidable feeling of dread seeping from the back of my head and wrapping itself along my spine all the way to my arse. It makes my toes go cold. My back hurts when I stretch, but some tension goes away after I do a few crackling moves. I’m fully awake.

               A step is all it takes for my brain to protest, to demand to leave through the ears. So this is what being hit by a truck feels like. What the hell happened, where am I? The air feels wrong, the shadows are wrong, oh god, they’re moving.. What the hell? Where’s the light switch? I can’t move. The shadows wiggle and turn, creeping ever so slowly closer and closer. Gravity changes, it’s like I’m still in my bed. Am I? Am I still sleeping? But I can’t move, can’t wake up. I must be sleeping, but why can’t I wake up? Oh crap. I’m terrified. I’d scream but can’t.

               Then I hear a voice, powerfull and vibrant, making me jump up from my bed – “Bloody move over you putz, you’re hogging the blanket and I’m bloody cold!”. I believe I just shat my nickers. Holy hell, I gotta stop eating crap for dinner. Sweetie, I’m swearing off haggis as of this instant. Dammit, it’s giving me heartburn at two in the morning.

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