Eigengrau haze comes into being as you slowly become aware of your limbs once more. Your back, then legs and arms—God, that arm is buzzing with the needles of poor circulation; you slept like an idiot. What the hell is wrong with you?
With a groan, you turn your head from the now-wet side of the pillow. The older you get, it seems, the less you can control anything, much less sleep-drooling. Your bladder can shoot you out of bed like a lightning bolt at 3am and it does so whenever you've dared to drink anything at all after 5pm. Shit. Then there's the whole ordeal that is heartburn, your backpain, and oh does your mind wander. You think of the stresses of your work and the hopefully lazy day you'll be able to enjoy (or more like; tolerate) that is today. Saturday.
Saturday, you reflect, is an okay day. Used to be better.
Finally, you open your eyes, feeling a sheen of half-dry spit (hell you wish it were dry) on your cheek. Your stubble has grown in. If only it could be like that on your head, then you'd feel a bit more like the man you once felt like. The years have not been kind to you, Lawrence, no they have not.
You open your eyes—the sunlight was bleeding into your sight anyway—to stare at the acoustic finish of your ceiling. You've spent hours looking at the popcorn of your room's ceiling, sometimes tracing out images in your mind's eye. On a really good day, you can find an excellent image of a nice, juciy vulva being pierced by a raging hard erection. Usually you see faces that you'd bet to yourself that you could illustrate and probably compete with any cartoonist, but today, you just see the shadows the little bumps cast.
Before you even manage to groan out your wakefulness or even look to see how your wife is, you think of the nice bag of coffee you'd picked up the other day and how that would taste in just a few minutes. Or maybe the dark lager you've had in the fridge for too long. Sure, it's probably gone to piss, but who knows? Maybe you'll have a nice beer tonight and maybe it won't even give you heartburn. Maybe.
You look over to see your wife's form silhouetted in the sunlight. Normally she's up before you and, though you love her, you wouldn't dare wake her up. Not unless you wanted to have a bitch fight for the rest of the whole day.
You roll out of bed and bounce yourself as best you can to your feet. Your back gnaws at you for daring to stand. Your bladder reminds you now that; while you yet live, you've gotta have a piss.
Nearly stumbling and reaching out to hold onto the walls for your balance, you get to the restroom and pull the toilet seat up. You hate the fuzzy cover she's got on it, looking like a shag wreck. Honestly, you're shocked that it hasn't got shit all over it. It's a stupid thing. Who wants to shit while sitting on carpet, for fuck's sake?
Whatever.
It takes you time for your stream to start up, but finally you feel your bladder start to drain. The relief is significant. You swear that, sometimes? A good piss can be better than sex.
"What the fuck!?" you hear your wife's voice shriek, high-pitched as all hell and downright shocking.
You hurry back to the room, across the hall in the stairwell (nearly falling on the bannister as you go) to appear in your bedroom doorway.
"Wh-what's wrong?" you croak, trying to let your eyes adjust to your sun-drowned bedroom.
"I-" your wife squeaks. "I... What the fuck, Lawrence?" she asks, though her voice is not her own. Her voice is that of a girl's, not even a teenaged girl but a child's voice. That's not all. As your eyes acclimate to the light level, you blink—your eyes surely playing tricks on you.
Submerged in your wife's bedclothes is a young girl with the blond hair of her youth. Bright blue eyes full of tears stare at you helplessly as she holds up her hands, lost in her sleeves as they are.
"Larry?" she asks, on the verge of sobbing. "What the fuck happened to me, Larry?" she squeaks.
What the fuck indeed, you consider.