Read My Shorts

Small Man, Big Hammer

Darren awoke to the sounds of screaming: high pitched, shrill, unending, a multitude of voices screeching the same thing over and over again. He groaned as pain spiked through his head.

Eyelids peeled away from orbs raw with grit, smoke and lack of sleep, and he stared at the wall opposite.

Using what few grey cells seemed to be obeying him he began to process what little information he had available to him as his eyes focused on his surroundings.

Wall: white, featureless. No help there.

Bible 'Placed by The Gideons.' Okay, so I'm in a hotel.

Pile of empty bottles, small man behind left eye attempting to drill through cranium with a jackhammer. Ah, hangover. Woah, how much did I drink?

Arm draped over shoulder. Can't feel it. Not mine. How much did we drink? Oh crap, the wife's going to kill me. And what the hell is all the screaming about?

Darren disengaged the flaccid arm of whoever happened to be in the bed with him and sat up slowly, trying not to further enrage the small man with the overly large hammer. With his back to the other occupant of the king size - that could wait for a moment - he suppressed the urge to throw up and sat with his head in his hands.

Okay, further assessment. I have clothes on. That's good. We can only hope that implies drunken moron, rather than drunken debauchery. Right, who's in here with me?

Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the person he'd spent at least some time lying down next to.

Oh! It's a guy! Well that's a first. Looks kinda young. Looks vaguely familiar too. Wonder if he's got any paracetamol?

"Hey!" A single word rasped out from Darren's raw throat and he poked the lad in the bed. "Er... dude, you ok?" His bed partner of indeterminate time felt cold, and there was a blue tinge to the other man's lips. Darren shot to his feet in alarm, instinct telling him something he really didn't want to know.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

Panic bubbled up in his mind, and something else bubbled up in response. Taking a few quick steps he made it to the open window, and a gut load of alcohol and panic joined the pigeons on the balcony. He groaned again, and hung out of the window for a few moments. The screaming was a lot louder now and he raised a bleary head to look out over the streets below.

A sea of young women thronged the area in front of the hotel, banners, balloons and underwear hoisted high as they shouted their adulation to the skies. The screams stabilised into a rhythm, a sickening counterpoint to his own misery, and one name was repeated over and over again. The last few remnants of fog cleared from his brain with sickening reality and a massive surge of adrenaline fear, and he turned to face the tousle-headed dead man in the bed.

"Oh, dear God," he whispered, as the rhythm reached a teen crescendo outside.

"Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, HAAARRRRREEEEE!"

~~

Haven't done a short story for a while, but this prompt from @ChallengeCorner tickled Brian into action.

"We've all had nights that we ultimately regret. In most situations, we at least have the blessing/curse of remembering WHY we should regret them. Sometimes, however, all we have are the results.

I can't think of anything worse after a night of drinking than waking up next to someone and not being able to remember their name.

Or how we met.

Or why they're dead."

Great prompt guys. Hell, it's almost 1Direction Fanfiction =]