Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]
Post: FFF – July 19, 2013
Theme / Genre: Summer
Include: –
Words: 850
Mad Dogs and
Englishmen
The mirrored images of the tall apartment blocks enlarge and
reduce with the water’s rippling movement, as the sun reflects off the
pool. Little shimmering ghosts of light
zigzag backwards and forwards between the buildings. Even with my Oakleys on, the light scratches
at my retinas.
I try to blink, my eyelids feel like sandpaper. How long have I been staring into the
whirling pool of colour?
I try to move.
I can’t move.
When I say I can’t move, I mean it hurts to move. It’s like I’m frozen, as if someone has
slipped me a needle. Only these are not
your normal injectables, they are numbing epidurals, or glue, or magnetic stuff
pinning me to the sun-lounger, but whatever, it ain’t pain relief; and what’s
with that drumming noise in my ears.
My muscles cringe with agony at the slightest shift in my
position. When I move the stabbing pains
are intense, sharp and piercing rip-like sensations, to neck and shoulders down
through my arms, my back and legs; until I stop moving. So, I can’t, I mustn’t move.
Glancing down to my side table, which hurts like I’ve voodoo
pins piercing my eyeballs, I spy my bottle of beer the beads of condensation
slowly dribbling down its length; it’s untouched, I can’t reach it.
Looking the other way I see Gazzer’s table, it’s full of
empty bottles and leftover side salad; from a quarter pounder I expect. Did I miss lunch?
‘Hey, Johnno, what’s up mate?’ It’s Steve’s voice, just audible over the
thumping sounds in my head, but I can’t see him, I try to crane my neck, but
the pain, jeese, the pain.
Making an attempt to communicate, I can provide nothing more
than a groan. Steve comes into view,
he’s staring down at me, dripping wet from the swimming pool, body glistening
brown. We’ve only been in Magaluf two
days and his Italian skin’s looking more Mediterranean than ever. He’s laughing.
‘Oh, mate, speak up,’ he rubs his face with a towel and
peers at me again. ‘You sound retarded.’
I try again, nothing but a long groan. My lips are fused together, and as push my
dry tongue between to prise them open, I can feel the skin tearing apart. Everything I seem to do is painful.
‘That’s gross, Johnno, your lips are bleedin’ now. Gazzer look at his lips.’
‘Man, looks like you’ve been punched in the face,’ Gazzer
says, coming into view, as he sits up on his lounger. ‘You’re a bit pink too, mate.’
‘Ike arn oove,’ I muster, but it’s not coherent, I can tell
by their faces.
‘He’s gone loopo,’ Steve says and turns around to face the
pool. He bends down on his haunches at
the pool edge. I turn to Gazzer.
‘Seriously Johnno, stop messing about now,’ he says.
Suddenly, I feel on fire, as if someone has just thrown
hundreds of burning embers onto my skin, my whole body jolts
uncontrollably. Steve is standing in
front of me his hands freshly dripping wet, the few droplets of water that run
down my sunglasses confirm that he has just thrown a handful of water over
me. Steve and Gazzer laugh at my
frenzied body. My eyes are filling with
water. With nerve endings on overload
the pain is bombarding my brain, the thumping is drowning out their laughing,
they appear not to hear anything. Then it
hits me, it’s the sound of my own racing heartbeat.
‘Calm down mate, it’s only water,’ Steve laughs openly. Behind him an audience is growing, I see
faces staring back at me, a mixture of smiles and shocked expressions. Some laugh along with him, but others are
asking, ‘Is he alright?’
‘Ssto pid,’ more slurred nonsense passes my lips, and as
tears slither out from the rims of my glasses on the way to my jawline, I feel
it’s not only slurs that are going to pass my lips; nausea is crashing through
my body at a rate of knots, tickling at my throat.
As the rubberneckers push closer someone shouts, ‘He’s as
red as a lobster.’
I’ve no time to examine my skin, my stomach has flipped
churning up last night’s copious lager and curried chips, the bongos are going
mad in my head. Then, unable to control
my body any more, I erupt.
The shorts, legs and flip-flops of the front row receive a
splattering with vomit. My crimson stomach
and legs are stinging once more.
‘Give him some air,’ a sweet voice from an unseen face,
filters through the drumming. The crowd
step back, a girl pushes through with a bottle of water and places it against
my burnt and bloody lips, she squirts a small mouthful in and it begins to
quench the fire.
‘Has he been here long?’ she asks to nobody in particular.
‘Since this morning,’ Gazzer answers.
‘It must be food poisoning from that Indian, you wait ’till
I_’
‘No,’ the girl interrupts Steve and looks back at me. ‘Your friend has got severe sunstroke.’
What a way to start of my summer romance.
