expletive, Non classé, short story, writing

Drop the ball.

I was awakened by a ray of sunshine on my face. I’m such a light sleeper it’s terrible : you could just breathe silently in the corner of the room and that would wake me up nine times out of ten. Probably ten out of nine even. My eyes still closed I felt around for my phone but wasn’t able to find it; that meant I had to open my eyes and I knew what was coming next. I was hungover, and as soon as I saw the light, my head went on a full cycle of chronicle explosions. As if every particule in my head was loudly committing suicide. The scene in the room was appalling : clothes everywhere, which still was kind of a mystery as I realized I had once again gone to bed all dressed up, empty bottles on the ground, and a puddle of blood that already was half dried. As I tried to sat in bed, a strong pain got hold of me. I felt as if I was broken. At that moment, I knew that I had gotten my ass kicked again. You see I wouldn’t say that it was quite the usual thing at that time, but I definitely had some previous experience in the field. I just thought I was over it, but I guess everyone makes mistakes here and there, right ?
I managed to extricate myself out of bed and limp towards the bathroom. Once again, appalling. My upper lip was swollen and I was wearing a very nice shiner. I also figured there was something wrong about my ribs, as even breathing was a pain. Have you ever had a broken rib ? Even a cracked rib is just the worst thing you could wish to someone, worst than death I swear. You die, you’re good, you’re done. Try living with cracked ribs, you can’t do anything.
Sadly for you, I spent the rest of the day in bed just resting and trying to heal my wounds. I had no nurse to come and check on me, and hence there was no occasion for me to have a great moment of passionate sex. I feel bad for you really, I’m sure you would have loved that. I hear it’s quite the selling thing you know, sex. People complain all the time there is too much pornography everywhere, and yet they constantly look for it everywhere. Be it movies, TV shows or books, sex is all we’re looking for, isn’t that fucked up ? It’s funny we talk about this really, since it’s sort of how everything started.
While I was in bed, in between my periods of pain and self loathing I would fall asleep, and remember about the previous night. What a beautiful bitch, memory. I remember sitting in a pub – does that really surprise you ? I told you I’m a creature of habit – and I was minding my own business. There were a bunch of huge guys looking very dumb and making a lot of stupid noises in the back of the pub, and I assumed they were rugbymen. It sounds wrong to say that but I feel you can spot any guy who plays that particular sport. Like really, it seems to me that however different they all may be, they all look the same. I guess that’s the thing with sports team, you’ve got one spirit for the whole team. It’s certainly why I have always been a loner in the first place, I like to have my own spirit. Seeing how my mood was changing because of the omnipresence of the erectus’ in the back, I got out of the pub and found myself wanting to go home. I started to walk joyfully, not really understanding that for once, I might have been safer inside the pub. You see on Saturday nights, this place is not a normal town. I am highly tempted to call it Hell, but as I have never been there yet I’m not sure I can rightfully make that comparison. I can tell you it was chaos though. I could see people on all fours everywhere, puking, screaming and/or crying. I felt I was in a Motley Crüe documentary, without the music. I was quite convinced that Bergson’s theories of real time and felt time were written in such situations; it only took me twenty minutes to get home from where I was, and yet it felt like twenty hours. Well, I guess the fact that I got into a fight before actually making it doesn’t help you’re right. But anyway, as I was making my way through the craziness, I witnessed a terrible thing : while a man was about to cross the street without looking on neither sides of the road, I saw those two girls half naked and totally baked, showing off their nice bodies to every damn soul on the street. I pushed the guy, and got myself closer to the young ladies. They were about nineteen I would say, one of them was wearing her skirt like my younger cousin wears his baggies and the other was using a tissue as her tshirt. I didn’t say anything, just stayed close and looked as people – mostly men – were coming towards them. I remember feeling vaguely insulted by the scene. I mean, I love women. I really do. But that was too much for me : I mean I hate to be the jerk (well okay not really), especially seeing that I already have been, but how about some self respect ? It’s probably my personal taste, but I don’t find anything attractive in a woman that’s totally blotto, even less so if she’s more a girl than a woman. And even if you have a nice body, does that justify you showing it off in the streets ? I know there is a lot of this online, where people just randomly snap pictures of their naked selves and express their artsy feelings and all that. I find that very interesting, and if it pleases the people then great ! Find something that you love and go do it, don’t care about what people say. Well unless they try to murder or rape you. Which could actually be the case here. Can women actually live without contributing to the commodification of the body ? Wait no, can we all live without doing that ? Man, I was so drunk at that point I couldn’t think straight. I was watching those two baby faced girls dance in the streets, and I wondered if there was any way women could actually escape the pornstar stereotype one day. Such a sad feeling, right ? But never fear, you can always count on those rugby guys to bring the fun. You see I wasn’t the only one who spotted the girls. The guys from earlier did too, and were approaching as fast and furiously as they could. That part is still a little blurry, so pardon the inexactitude.
‘Dost thou know how delicous thou look lady ?’ the bigger one said, I think.
‘Pouvons-nous vous venir en aide très chères demoiselles en détresse ? Vous semblez être dans un embarras certain, et nous pourrions vous conduire jusqu’à notre demeure où vous serez plus qu’en surêté. Je dirais même plus, entre de bonnes mains.’ one of the other added.
The girls were giggling and smiling and laughing; I was sure I could see one of the rugby guys salivating. I got a little bit closer, and steadied myself with a wall. For a moment I felt like a vigilante, I wanted to avoid the girls getting in trouble. I really did.
‘What dost ye say ? Shall ye come and join us ?’ his hand went straight on one of the girls butt, and that was my cue.
‘Say, why don’t you and the troubadours hit the road and leave the girls alone ?’ I felt heroic. I really did.
‘Who’s this moron?’ I head someone say.
‘Get out of here idiot.’ Someone else answered.
‘Look, I said, I don’t want trouble I only want you to leave those two girls alone okay ?’
‘That’s too bad for you idiot, Trouble is my middle name.’ I still felt heroic, just a bit less than before.
‘Isn’t Philip your middle name ?’ I think one of the other rugby guys said that, and everyone smiled.
I actually laughed at that, which was a technical mistake from my part, as I got punched in the face at that moment. They ganged up on me for short while that again felt like years, and as I was spitting blood on the dirty pavement, I could see the girls leaving with them. They were giggling, as usual.
There is no moral to that, once again. I just tell my stories the way they are. I can’t understand how rugbymen always get the girls, while I was trying to do the right thing. It’s beyond me really. But I’ve got to admit, it’s a nice sport. I should probably try it some time.

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