Slipstream

The doctor told me given a concussion of that magnitude a certain amount of amnesia was not unexpected and nothing to be worried about, so I went home and tried not to think about the accident.

The day after I could only assume I’d gone to work because I found myself at home and it was evening. My keys were on the kitchen table and there were dirty dishes in the sink. I couldn’t remember anything.

I blinked and I was in a nightclub; there was loud electronic music blaring and I felt drunk. A bottle of beer was in my hand and a beautiful girl was dancing up on me.

The strobe lights flashed and I found myself in an apartment high above the city, looking down at the girl’s limp body. I stared at the smoking revolver in my hand.

I opened my mouth and then I was surrounded by the white tile of a bathroom. The walls were covered in blood and so was I. Slowly I pulled back the clear plastic shower curtain to see what was in the reddened tub, fearing the worst.

I swallowed and I was standing on the rocky bank of the river, watching bobbing black garbage bags, inflated like balloons, slip away in the current.

I turned my head and then I was on my knees in the cool night air of the street and surrounded by flashing lights. I felt cuffs tighten around my wrists and the barrel of the gun pull away from my head.

“You’re going away for a long time, son, after what you did.”

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