I was stained to the maroon leather, existing as the ash-covered centerpiece to the tiny square room. It was the first unit to the apartment complex that resembled an old run-down motel which could be envisioned in a late 70s counter-culture based film. The units surrounded the vast four-cornered parking lot in a perpendicular fashion, with lined spaces allowing for close vehicle encounters that were tighter than a nun’s cunt. The complex itself was the color of death, complimented by low shingle roofs and wilderness green shutter; and the aura was a constant reminder of the several weeks of rain producing a pounding on the roof that was louder than the sound emanating from the bedroom of a thirteen-year old boy who just discovered the countless uses of the internet.
The first unit, which I could have referred to as my humble abode, though I purposely avoided saying due to its asshole and douchebag connotation, was mine with one other absent roommate. There were five rooms in the apartment: one decently sized living room connecting to a fairly recent kitchen with a screen door leading to the back alleyway, two small bedrooms, and a dirty old bathroom dividing the bedrooms.
The carpets were the color of sand with accompanying inevitable black stains resulting from a spot of nuisance in the three parking spaces facing the front door, and the bright white walls effectively highlighted the stains. Due to my cynical, yet intellectual nature, I could tell that the landlord had intentionally put the light colored carpets in the apartment to collect the cash for the simple accusations of carpet damage. In fact, the landlord enjoyed bending me over a desk and fucking me up the ass by eventually replacing the carpets with the same color; but that’s neither here nor there. Posters and tapestries of Jimi Hendrix, Ozzy Osbourne, Led Zeppelin surrounded a high-top wooden table, shoved in the corner under a crappy beleived-to-be-80s chandelier, and other random stoner shit. The maroon couch faced a tile coffee table and a black Target-made television stand supporting a forty-inch flat screen, a Comcast router, a PlayStation, and a two-foot bong.
My bedroom was the back room, which was open to little sunlight and rude awakening—and allowed for plenty of sleep and depressing bed days. When you turned the gold knob of the door and pushed, the queen-sized bed was to the right, the small closet to the left, and a cheap black desk was at noon. It was my own bedroom, inside of an apartment occupied by me and one other guy; however, my girlfriend spent every night in my bed with me.
It was a Saturday night at a neighbor/friend’s house party, where there was a bonfire, plenty of people, cigarette smoke, and essential beer. I was exhausted from something beyond my memory, and I wanted to go home to sleep it off. Once again, what happened, specifically, exists as a cloud in my memory; but it ended in walking home with my girlfriend with tears in her eyes and fury flooding my nerves. Needless to say, my girlfriend had enough alcohol in her system to slam against the bed and lack consciousness. I had enough fury and cigarettes to attempt to sleep on the couch and chain-smoke, watching some Christina Applegate movie from the late 80s. It must’ve have been half a pack of Marlboro Reds before I realized that sleep was not a great option at that moment. So, as any experienced drug or alcohol user would do, I searched for a remedy; and being out of Nyquil, I resorted to old Dayquil.
What seemed like minutes later, I was lying on my back slowly opening my eyes, catching myself falling asleep. In my line of vision was a push-pinned Rasta flag covering the gaps in the blinds of the living room window. To the left of the flag and the window was a Ozzy poster with blood-dripping vampire teeth. I rubbed my eyes, trying to forget about the scolding feud that occurred along the walk, and the alcohol-induced tears following our footsteps. Seconds later, I was out.
I woke up in a daze, slowly opening my eyes to see the white-blinded window. Covering the gap in the window was a poster of Neil Young with one-legged wrapped around the other and a Martin guitar on his lap. To the left of Neil was a poster of The Band, the album cover of their self-titled release. Something felt different, and I felt incredibly dizzy as I made my way to my feet. My cigarettes were absent from the tile table, my TV was off, and I felt something breathing down my neck. The room was dark and gloomy, and I was in a sleep-induced stupor. Unsure what to do, I headed towards my back bedroom, hoping to get back in bed with my girlfriend whom I wished to make amends with.
Frightened of what my mind was producing at the moment, I slowly opened the door to my bedroom. As soon as the door creaked open, a bright yellow light blinded my vision, and strange Sitar-based music clouded my mind. I turned to the right to see my bed, and to see what I thought would be my girlfriend sound asleep/passed out drunk. What I saw, I will never forget. Lying on the bed bare-naked, aside from jingling gold jewelry was my girlfriend in a chest-up bridge position. Her beautiful face was sitting alone on the Egyptian cotton-covered pillow, with her hair pulled around one side of her neck. About two feet below her head, completely separated, was her naked body. To further disbelief, her one arm was working together with her legs and abdomen to hold her back above the bed, while her other arm lay gracefully along her stomach with her hand actively placed between her legs. I observed her from head to toe in horror, lacking any clue of an appropriate reaction. As soon as my line of vision reached her feet, I glanced back up at her face to find her grinning maliciously as she terrifyingly laughed louder than I thought possible. Completely horrified beyond comprehension I quickly left the room slamming the door shut, and sprinted back to the couch to close my eyes.
Moments later, I awoke once again to the sight of Neil Young and The Band as the façade of a window missing essential blinds. The walls were royal blue and the room was incredibly well lit as I made my way to my size 12, reconstructed feet. I walked around the maroon couch towards the hallway leading to my back bedroom. On the way, I heard a familiar commotion in the kitchen, so I decided to see what was going on. I walked into the bright blue kitchen and found my girlfriend wearing shiny gold necklaces, and a dress that appeared to resemble that of an Ancient Shona woman. Maintaining the other end of the conversation was a young, beautiful black woman wearing similar attire. When I entered the room, the conversation ceased and their attention turned towards me. There was an awkward silence as I gazed around to find the kitchen looking unfamiliar, and the women in front of me looking even more unfamiliar (though one was my girlfriend in appearance). I looked in the sink, which was filled with soapy water, though empty aside from a floating pack of Marlboro Reds. I decided not to make any hostile assumptions about how my cigarettes ended up there, and directed my attention back towards the girls. Intrigued, and mysteriously comfortable in the moment, I asked, “What’s goin’ on?” As the words left my mouth, their conversation resurfaced audibly, yet the black girl approached me with a brown leather box in her hand. She opened the box with satisfaction in her eyes. “Which one,” she asked, adding to the confusion that clouded my mind. In the box were three massive gold rings: one was the head of an elephant, one was the head of a panda, and the third was the head of a gorilla. Impulsively, I seized the gorilla ring, slid the perfectly fitting ring on my index finger, grabbed a drowned cigarette from the full sink and sparked it with a nearby book of matches. As I found comfort in the nicotine, and the smoke in the air, I walked back to the couch to lie down and finish.
I opened my eyes to find Neil Young and The Band in front of me, hiding the gaps in the white-blinded window. The walls were painted bright gold, and borderline unbearable to look at. The routine seemed too familiar, and I felt something breathing down my neck once again. I knew I could not handle the overwhelming sensations that were eating away at my conscious mind, so I decided to close my eyes hopefully once more. Instead of remaining calm and lying there in a relaxed manner, I shut my eyes as tight as I could, clenching my fists, and screaming at the top of my lungs in distress. “Help! Help! Please, help! Help!”
I opened my eyes, lifting my body, which stuck to the couch from the soaking sweat, and saw Ozzy’s blood-dripping teeth and the Rasta flag. I sprinted back to my bedroom.
