Undone

The alarm wakes me. It stabs into my sleep. Prises my eyelids apart. Thumps horrid thoughts against the walls of my head. The first day of my death. The air is thick and solid. Time has slowed so that a second takes a year. I’m not sure if I can hear anything. Nothing moves. No time. No sound. This can’t be right. Surely, on such an auspicious occasion, loads of things should be happening.

When I say death I mean I feel like death. Warmed up. Big party last night. My birthday. Three cheers for me! And now the pain. Plus the mess. Oh my god, the pain and the mess. Both inside and out. I’m lying face down on my bed and the wrong way around. Still dressed. I notice all the things scattered across the floor. Books, CDs, clothes, pens and paper. I must have been showing off. Juggling, maybe? I consider all these things as a bad sign.

I consider a course of action. Lie here and let everything pass me by. Bad idea. There are things to do and the inevitable people to see. Plan B then. Cast the hangover aside and jump to it! That is so much easier said than done. Maybe something in the middle. Stagger about the house moaning and groaning whilst making feeble attempts to tidy up. That’ll probably be it.

The thing that weighs heaviest on my mind is that I have to join the rest of the family this afternoon at my parents’ place. The official birthday party. Put on a brave face. Eat cake and sip tea. Discuss marriage and property with mum and dad; sport and politics with my brothers. While young nephews and nieces run around poking me with toys and generally creating not only a nuisance but also a racket. I must be brave. I must be strong. If they detect a weakness they will pounce like panthers. I make the big decision. And get out of bed.

The house is a complete shambles. Too much for my poor brain to handle at first. My housemates went elsewhere leaving me as the custodian of this terraced castle. I am alone and alone I must face this. The air is dank; the smell pub-like. The furniture looks exhausted; the cushions, assaulted. The curtains hang indignantly as if they have been violated. Cups and glasses, cans and bottles invade spaces like locusts. The stereo is humming quietly to itself.

I need coffee. Fumbling fingers find the necessary ingredients. My stomach grumbles incoherently. I nibble on last night’s stale nibbles. They’re horrible but trick my tummy that it’s getting food. The dark nutty aroma of the percolated coffee tantalises my nose. The first sip of the steaming brew invigorates my soul

Sufficiently renourished, I potter about the kitchen emptying things in the bin and putting others in the sink. I wonder what sort of animal can make such a mess and just leave it. We humans are purveyors of pollution, merchants of mess. We create. We destroy. Burdened by these negative notions the whole task of cleaning up seems beyond my strength. My lungs struggle to draw breath. I shake my head and groan quietly. The stench of flat drinks and overflowing ashtrays begin to bring back my nausea.

Soon I have a relapse. I need air. I stumble upstairs and out onto my balcony. I brace myself against the railings and take a deep breath. It’s a sunny summer’s day and the sky is an unerring blue. The local birds are chirpy and chat with each other from branches and perches. Across the rooftops of the inner city streets, I can see the fluttering flags of a distant shopping centre. A tiny aeroplane leaves a thin white trail. The occasional car rumbles by on its morning errand.

As I suck in the cleaner air I console myself that, at least, the outside world looks to be its normal self. A gentle breeze wipes itself against my cheek. I sigh at its gentle caress.

Then I notice them. My underwear. All over the pavement below. I remember it was windy last night. The little makeshift clothesline must have lost its struggle to restrain them. Plastic pegs lay twisted and broken amongst the boxers, briefs and bike pants.

There are people passing by, looking at them. Strewn and helpless. All my favourites spreadeagled on the footpath, slumped in the gutter. Soiled with leaves and cigarette butts. Oh no, I cringe. What do I do? Pretend I don’t know them? Never seen them before in my life, Officer, honest! No, I can’t abandon them. Besides I need them. They’re all I have.

Some passers-by are putting two and two together. They survey the stricken smalls and look up at the sad creature gazing forlornly down at the footpath. I give a furtive glance. They turn away, silently snickering.

The situation deteriorates. The neighbours two doors down emerge. All bright and vibrant. Dressed for the day with the kiddies darting about. The adults observe the scene disdainfully. Horrorstricken as the little boy pokes at the red silk boxers with his toy gladiator sword. As if the noise wasn’t enough. Now this! They call him away. I offer them a sickly grin. They return a look of disgust.

My trusty undies. I was going hard last night. Loud and undoubtedly obnoxious. Perhaps they saw a side of me they didn’t like. Possibly they’d had enough. Maybe they didn’t fall. Maybe they jumped.