For one, terrifying moment I knew what it felt like to be a murderer
I jerk awake, suddenly and completely. There's no gradual period of growing consciousness; one moment I was passed out, not dreaming, dead for all I knew, and the next I here I am, alive and feeling great and... No. Not feeling so great. I must have drunk a fair bit last night. Where am I? Hmm, more than a fair bit. Can't move. Where *am* I? This isn't my room.

I look around. It's not a hotel either. No TV. So where is this place? I look up, ducking sharply as the space shuttle plummets towards my head! No, it's not crashing, it's not moving at all, it's tied to the ceiling. I look down. Spiderman glares menacingly at me from the duvet. The disturbingly small duvet. My feet are dangling over the edge of the bed, still clad in socks that fortunately I recognise as my own. Why are there plastic dinosaurs on the floor? Why are their aeroplanes on the wall? I keep looking. Shelves. Books. Big, bright, colourful books with titles in a foreign language I've never seen before. What the fuck?

Oh dear God what have I done?

I raise myself up, slowly, so slowly. Don't jolt! My brain feels like an over-full cup of tea, it's sloshing around and I have to move so carefully or it will spill right out of my ears. Waves of nausea crash up against me, battering my fragile grasp on reality. Is this real? Do I want it to be? I can taste something strange now, not the usual dead-rat hangover mouth, but something metallic. My face feels odd too, like I'm wearing a mask. I touch it, it's sticky. My fingers come away covered with something red.

Blood.

Instantly it comes to me: I've got so drunk I've blacked out, broken into a house *in a foreign country* and then killed and eaten a child so I could sleep in his bed.

How? I've never even been in a fight! I'm a monster! I remember stories of people blacking out and doing horrific things, strangling their wives in their sleep, or killing themselves. Now I'm one of them. Please let this be a nightmare. Please, please. I look around for signs of a struggle, for a body, a broken window. Nothing. The room is small, the only blood is on me and most of my clothes are neatly stacked on a chair in the corner. Where is the victim? Maybe I didn't kill him? Maybe we fought, and he escaped because I was too sloshed to finish the job. I want to throw up.

Time to see where I've been. Take stock. My mobile is dead. My pockets contain some money - Danske Bank! Aha! I'm in Denmark. Why, though? I should be in London. There's a receipt, 4,000KR, my name, 11:37pm and a word that looks like it might translate as 'gallery'. Eh? There's a ticket stub, too. Brian Wilson, in some place called Aalborg. It's coming back to me now. My Danish friend Tom was talking about going to see Brian Wilson in his home town. Obviously I decided to go. It seems like I spent four hundred quid on a painting as well, though there's no sign of it here. That, and I tried to cannibalise a child. I'm panicking now, not sure whether to laugh or vomit but wanting to do both.

Where am I *now* though? Where in Denmark?

There's a knock at the door. A pretty Scandinavian woman walks in, mid thirties, she looks a bit familiar. She's smiling, but her face changes when she sees mine. It's not rage though, it's concern. Doesn't she know?

"Scrumper! Morning! Did you sleep OK? Why is there blood on your face?"

Thank the Lord above for that. She knows me and I didn't eat her son. The relief is visceral, tangible. I cling to it, try not to cry.

"I don't know. What happened? Where am I? Do you know Tom?"

"Haha you idiot. We're having breakfast, come and I'll get you a cloth for your face."

The story emerged over some cold meat and bread. I had indeed flown to the far North of Denmark to see Brian Wilson be very weird and very brilliant in front of a few thousand people in a rain-soaked amphitheatre. Tom's new girlfriend, a single mum, had come along too. Her friend owned a gallery near the gig which was having a late-night opening with free wine. I'd bought a picture from her friend and we'd then all gone out to celebrate until four or five in the morning and then gone back to hers. Her son was with his father, so they'd dumped me in his bed to sleep it off. Nobody could explain the blood.

The picture turned up in London a few months later. It's a gigantic, nightmarish red abstract; a vision the artist called "The Beast." It captures perfectly the view a train driver would have if Snoopy decided to end it all in front of an Intercity 125. It hangs proudly in my bedroom now, scaring my wife and reminding me of the day I went to hell and came back.
( Scrumper, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 19:08, 11 replies)

Wow. Just wow. That is great, *clicks hard*
(resurrection_mary cannibal_ferox, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 19:17, closed)

Now this,
this is how you tell an amusing anecdote.
*takes notes*
*clicks*
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 20:12, closed)

^ This
*click*
(DownhillGardener no-one does it like that anymore, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 21:47, closed)

i've had some fucked-up awakenings
but i take my hat off to you.
*clicks*
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Wed 29 Jun 2011, 22:06, closed)

Excellent work
I really enjoyed reading this.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 8:39, closed)

Nicely written
Click.
(ParaSitius is an Optimistic Pessimist, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 9:34, closed)

that sounds a mighty horrifc wakening
have click
(Clashrock is being stalked by his brother on, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 9:38, closed)

Great story
Have a *click*
( snee held his breath since, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 10:18, closed)

A great read!

( awayfromthenumbers, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 10:54, closed)

sooo.. did you ever find out where the blood came from?
(tyrellsOwl, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 12:36, closed)

Likely a nosebleed
I used to get them on occasion. There was blood in my first sick (I was sick on the train, in the aeroplane, in the taxi and on my doorstep - must be some award for that) so I must have swallowed a fair bit of it. I was so drunk that I wouldn't have woken up.

In more than 12,000 mornings I've enjoyed so far, this ranks as the number one worst. I dread the day I top it.

Mind you, their cat never showed up for breakfast...
( Scrumper, Thu 30 Jun 2011, 13:51, closed)