Spoiler
Your story is about a mortician in a bottle singing wicked.
A/N: The line breaks are weird in the beginning? Please ignore them.
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If someone had stepped on one of the narrow streets crossing the Main Road of the Town, he would not have seen a lot. In fact, the only significant thing on the street, apart from some dry leaves, was an empty bottle lying on the darkest spot by the wall.
It wasn't really an unusual bottle at all – it was green and made of glass, and the label had been scratched off, most likely on a drunken Friday night. There was a man inside it, and the cork was in its place. That's what made it slightly more unusual than the rest – bottles and their corks are very rarely reunited after the last drop has been drunk.
Had the man been awake, he would have seen the grey world as green. But he was fast asleep, still wearing his work clothes.
His name was Ted.
Ted would probably have been sleeping for many more hours, if the vase that someone knocked over from a windowsill in the fourth floor hadn't fallen next to his bottle with a loud crash. He jerked up so suddenly that his round glasses fell at his feet.
"Sweet mother of mercy", said Ted, "I'm in a bottle."
He turned his head in disbelief as if expecting someone else to be there, too.
"I'm not here… This can't be real."
Ted couldn't understand. Here he was, a respectable mortician of fifty-two who had a bald spot and never missed the opportunity to open doors for women. Those were not the kind of people who woke up somewhere they hadn't gone to sleep in.
Ted pinched himself. It hurt.
"You are here", he said. "And this is real."
"Shut up", said Ted again. Sometimes he really couldn't stand to hear his own voice.
"No, you shut up."
"Okay, okay, okay. I'm not going to argue with myself (I'd probably lose, anyway). Okay."
Ted took a deep breath. "We – I need to be calm and sensible here. This is only a bottle. I'm still alive. I've still got legs. That… is good. All is good. Okay."
He fingered his tie nervously, although polyester did not bring him the comfort that his favourite, slightly crunchy, red silk tie would have.
A sudden terror flashed in Ted the mortician's eyes. "Oh, my God. What if someone recycles me?"
He needed to get out. Preferably as soon as possible.
"Help me! Somebody!" he yelled. "I'm in –"
He was going to say a bottle, but somehow it made him feel stupid.
"– trouble!"
He kicked the concave glass wall as an emphasis, but it did not break. Obviously this bottle was well made.
"This is ridiculous", muttered Ted. "Maybe someone would help me if I granted them three wishes."
However quick-witted morticians were not considered, Ted had not run out of ideas. He removed his jacket, undid the cufflinks of his pale blue shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and sprinted towards the cork. Ted wasn't sure if he was small, or if the bottle was enormous, but either way the distance between the mouth and the back of the bottle wasn't long. Ted and the cork collided like a driver and a windshield, but nothing else happened. The cork didn't move. Obviously it was well implanted.
Ted couldn't help snorting. Being trapped in a bottle was the most absurd thing that had ever happened to him. It would certainly make an interesting story to tell to his offspring. If he had had any. Ted remembered how, as a boy, he had seen a bottle with a ship inside it in his grandfather's study. He had asked Grandpa how it was possible for the ship to be there, but Grandpa had just chuckled into his beard and taken another biscuit.
"Well, at least now I know how – Wait... I don't." An urge of annoyance swept over Ted. He had really wanted to solve the mystery.
But how, indeed, had he ended up in the bottle? Had he become a drug abuser overnight? Was it all a dream?
In the back of his mind, Ted thought that if it really was a dream, he wouldn't have been able to smell white wine.
"I am not done", said Ted. He had one more lifeline up his rolled-up sleeve, and unfortunately, it looked like he would need to use it.
Ted was an intelligent man. He knew that glass could be broken by several ways, including piercing sounds. He also knew that if a man could produce a note high enough to break glass, it wouldn't be him. But anything was worth trying. He started to sing.
He had never had a lot of hobbies – and singing wasn't one of the few – but he was a frequent theatre goer and a particular fan of musicals. He bought the programme at every show he went to and kept them neatly arranged on his bookshelf. His newest one was the Town's production of Wicked.
There was one especially high note in 'Defying Gravity'.
Ted sang until his face turned red. He sang until his synthetic tie started to feel tight around his throat. But he did not hear the crash he was hoping for.
"There must be a greater force that doesn't want me to get out", thought Ted. He didn't say it aloud and therefore didn't admit it, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to disturb the force.
Then again, the bottle wasn't the worst place to be in. It was dry there, and it would be a long time until he would get thirsty or hungry. Ted comforted himself with the thought that if he was never to get out, he had been a good and honest part of mankind. He had neither a companion nor friends, but he had felt needed many a time when there was a new soul to be led to the happy hunting grounds.
"Besides", said Ted, "none of them had a coffin as nifty as mine."
