The years have been cruel. This cannot be my image I see before me…
…My answer to the Triond forum writing challenge round 13, where something is to be written using the words “rusty nail” and “netting”.
Twice in short succession something amiss has been presented. Can my mind forgive this disruption to my routine? Indeed it tries to, but it is unsettled. There is nothing readily available that can explain this apparent discrepancy beyond the ridiculous or for questions regarding the state of my sanity. Slowly I leave the en suite in a state of mild confusion. I scan my environment to determine if something can explain these events and put my mind at ease. All looks at first glance reasonable. The window is open for I prefer the cool air of the night as I sleep. The netting covers my bed to frustrate the army of needle nosed vampires that try to devour me as I slumber. A picture hangs on the wall from a half rusty nail. Something though is amiss here too, but I cannot fathom it.
I cautiously approach the bed for I am drawn to a disturbance that I can’t understand. The netting speaks to my instincts and whispers that the secret lies within. I touch the netting and roll it between my fingers and I realise with disbelief that the netting is of a polyester fibre! This cannot be, for I always use netting made from polyethylene fibre that has insecticide bound within the fibre, instead of to the surface of the fibre. It becomes apparent to me that I have been pulled into a parallel dimension or that I have indeed gone insane. Although unexpected for even my abnormal composure, I begin to scream.
In a moment of total surprise my scream is met by another. A wide eyed blonde woman has entered the bedroom and shrieks hysterically at me “Get out of my bedroom you pervert before I shoot you”. She dashes for a set of drawers at the opposite end of the bedroom and pulls out a small shining silver revolver. Without the slightest hesitation I propel myself headfirst out of the open window and sent sprawling into the rose bushes that live beneath it. I pull myself out of the flower bed as thorns tear at my skin and with the terror of gunshots and explosions of dirt beside me. I flee for my life sprinting down the middle of the road, naked, bleeding and fuelled by adrenalin. My mind far more focused is now howling at me – I agree with its cursing and decide that I should indeed wear pyjamas to bed and go see a doctor about my chronic sleep walking disorder before I get myself killed.
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