I woke this morning with a dry throat and a dead arm. Not much I could do about the dead arm, just let the blood rush back, feel the tingle, the capillaries explode. The carpet was moist to the touch, or was that just the sweat on my feet? Doesn't matter now, there's a head in the fridge.
Heavy feet plodded into the bathroom, I stuck my head under the tap and took a gulp from the cold spout. The night had been sticky, the day before had been hot. Today is no different, the heat is oppressive. The cool air of the fridge is a blessing. But why is there a head in the fridge?
The two storey semi bulged and expanded, midday approached as I walked down the stairs. I live with a guy named Pete. Pete's ok. The second to last stair creaks, always has. It creaked when I stepped on it today. The sound effects changed when I left the stairs, away from the soft rustle, onto the hollow thud of laminate. We have the same laminate in the kitchen, where the fridge is. Did I tell you there is a head in the fridge?
So I walked up to the fridge and I put my hand on it, then I decided I was going to be sick. The hangover had mainly been slept away, but the cold metal of the fridge door stirred up something inside. I hovered over the sink for a while, but wasn't sick. I was pleasantly surprised at that; just like I am now, looking at this head in the fridge.
I was at the sink and made a decision. I wanted a glass of milk. But you see, the cupboard of glasses was closer than the fridge, so I went to the cupboard of glasses first. I had no idea there was a head in the fridge.
The glass was picked and placed on the counter, so I went back to the fridge. When I opened it, there was the head. I must admit, when I look at the head now, I am a tad taken aback. You see, me and Pete had a salad for dinner yesterday, and I thought I'd used the whole head of lettuce. But there it is. There's a whole head of lettuce left in the fridge.
Smiling to myself, I take out the milk and pour a glass full. Not a whole glass of course, I'd rather sacrifice an inch to prevent any unnecessary and quarrelsome spillages. Replacing the milk, I close the fridge door on the head of lettuce.
I walk into the living room and sit down. Pete's body lies on the sofa next to me. Looks like he's been stabbed 37 times in the chest. Rough night. Then I remembered why there was a head in the fridge. Pete complained about my salad being boring, so I stabbed him thirty seven times and got a takeaway instead.
It was a Chinese. Roast duck satay, I think.
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