Scott -pt1

No!  The dream had come again.  Scott looked around the room made alien by the  nightshadows of the moonlight.  His furniture was painted with the remnants of nearly forgotten terror.  How long had it been?  No.  He would not think about it.  He would not remember it.

Scott rubbed the sweat from his eyes, or at least he tried to.  He was dripping so badly that he managed mostly to rub the stinging beads of sweat into his eyes rather than to clear his brow.  His bed was soaked — pillows, blanket, and all.  He began to shiver as the perspiration cooled his skin in the cool night air.  The faint musk of skunk drifting through his open window from some faraway wildlife drama  mingled unpleasantly with the stale smell of sweaty bed clothes.  The familiarity of these scents tugged at his memory, whispering, “Remember when….”

“No,” Scott mumbled as he swung a foot off the bed and onto the chilled wood floor.  He needed something to wash the taste of old night from his mouth.  He needed something to mask the taste of vomit from the back of his throat, to cover the taste of fear on his dry lips.

He reached for the bottle of Tuaca on the bedside table, and remembered that he had stopped the habit of bringing his drink to bed each night.  After all, only alcoholics and savages would drink Tuaca without ice.

As he forced the floating terrors from his line of sight, he stumbled down the hall to the kitchen.  He knew that if he let go of his will, the dream would swallow him.  It would carve scenes of horror and remembrance on the naked palette of the dirty apartment walls.

The light from the refrigerator stabbed onto the kitchen counter, bounced off the bent lines of a steel faucet and bedazzled a lone tumbler with shimmering diamonds.  The freezer light had died long ago, so Scott used the light from the open fridge door to fish out two pieces of automatic freezer ice from the frosty plastic bin.

A few swirls of the glass to chill, and then a hefty four fingers of Tuaca — three int he glass and another on the counter.  Scott sipped gently at first, welcoming the sweet citrus as it coated his lips.  He reveled as the astringent liquor stung away his thoughts.

Scott tried to think of Italy in the drink.  He had never been, so trying to remember was futile.  Good.  Anything to keep from remembering.  Damn!  Those sounds….”No!”  Scott muttered again.  This time more of a plea than a command.

A tilt of the bottle replenished the reserves as the first few sips we followed with lusty swallows.  Scott stumbled to the living room, still naked and chilled.  He was dry now, and felt a warmth beginning to spread through his chest.  The TV flickered, throwing eerie blue shadows on the sliding glass patio door.  An attractive woman in spandex told Scott why he needed a combo bath towel/weed whacker – or something as equally useful to a man recovering from…


An instantaneous, nearly imperceptible blackness as the idiot box jumped from one mind-numbing saga of consumerism to the next.


Were there commercials inside these commercials?



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