Waking up
It is interesting to wake up on the beach in the morning. The sun pokes up over the hills, the waves crash on the beach, a chill wind reminds you abruptly that summer is long past, and you have sand in your teeth.
Michael blinked and tear-encrusted beach fell from his eyes. He lifted his head off the sand and immediately was told by his body that it did not appreciate being held in this position too long; that it did not like the fact that it was very cold despite the blue sky, and moving was not advisable.
The realisation he was wearing only his pyjamas did little to improve the situation.
He sat up anyway and put a hand to his head. God, whatever he'd drunk last night, he really should have thought twice.
A seagull flew overhead and narrowly missed dumping guano on his head. As it was, it splashed in the sand next to him and he flinched.
Ergh.
Finally pulling together enough sense to look around, and squinting in the morning light, he looked up to find himself several hundred metres down his beach, on the other side of the stream from his house.
What the hell was he doing out here?
Memories of last night included going to bed and little else. There had been no party, no alcohol, since he barely touched the stuff nowadays anyway. There had even been a book, a rarity in itself, though its contents eluded him.
And now he was waking up on the beach.
Had he started sleepwalking? Yet another psychosis to add to his collection? He sighed and staggered to his feet. His head spun a moment, but he forced himself upright.
Whatever had happened, he needed Advil and a little less sunlight. One hand to his head and the other a little out from his body for balance, he headed back home.
Michael blinked and tear-encrusted beach fell from his eyes. He lifted his head off the sand and immediately was told by his body that it did not appreciate being held in this position too long; that it did not like the fact that it was very cold despite the blue sky, and moving was not advisable.
The realisation he was wearing only his pyjamas did little to improve the situation.
He sat up anyway and put a hand to his head. God, whatever he'd drunk last night, he really should have thought twice.
A seagull flew overhead and narrowly missed dumping guano on his head. As it was, it splashed in the sand next to him and he flinched.
Ergh.
Finally pulling together enough sense to look around, and squinting in the morning light, he looked up to find himself several hundred metres down his beach, on the other side of the stream from his house.
What the hell was he doing out here?
Memories of last night included going to bed and little else. There had been no party, no alcohol, since he barely touched the stuff nowadays anyway. There had even been a book, a rarity in itself, though its contents eluded him.
And now he was waking up on the beach.
Had he started sleepwalking? Yet another psychosis to add to his collection? He sighed and staggered to his feet. His head spun a moment, but he forced himself upright.
Whatever had happened, he needed Advil and a little less sunlight. One hand to his head and the other a little out from his body for balance, he headed back home.