The Storyteller's Narrative

Introductory Text

32nd Post

Posted 2 May 2016 at 21:58:38 EDT

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> Oh no. This one is real.
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> This is always the first thought when waking up after a blackout. After hours of flitting between different varieties of nightmare, you start to dream that you are lying sick and insane in a stained bed in a shithole apartment that smells like cigarettes and spoiled ham. Your slowly crystallizing consciousness begins to note that this particular nightmare is more persistent than the others, that it has a certain uncanny clarity to it. Oh no, you realize, this one is real.
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> You wake to the utter ugliness of your reality. It is too much. Too awful. What is the last thing you remember? God, it wasn't even midnight before the madness set in. You look at your hands. A tiny vibration runs through the fingers. Your entire mind feels like the raw meaty patch that is left after a fingernail is torn off. How many hours were you blacked out? Three? Four?
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> You sit up and look around for evidence of mischief: smashed plates, bags of take-out food, a nightstand drawer filled with vomit. All clear. You feel your face for bruises. Nothing major. Wallet and phone? Present and accounted for. Your phone says it's 2 PM. Not bad. You check the calls and texts. Nothing unusual. No two hour conversation with your boss starting at 5 AM. You log in to your bank website and take a look. $94.56 spent last night. A king's ransom by your standards, but at least you didn't go on a $400 blow-out.
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> You sit and wonder why you have this feeling of black guilt in your stomach. It's just the hangover, right? Just your poor brain snapping back from all the depressant you gave it last night, entering a hyper-vigilant state, a paranoid state, an intolerable state. God, you need a drink. You deserve a drink for not blowing the rent last night. Medically, you need a drink. Just a little drink, but nothing overboard that will get you all drunk at 3 in the afternoon and blacked out again tonight.
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> You go out of your tiny bedroom to front part of your apartment, and your heart stops. A woman is lying asleep on your couch. Not a young woman. An old woman. A tiny old grandma with messy gray hair. Jesus what have you done? Her eyes slowly open. At least she's alive. She asks if you're OK now. You nod. The question is sinister. OK now? What had been going on before? You can't deal with this without a drink. Who gives a shit if she sees, this old lady in sweatpants. You go to the freezer and get the vodka and take in two good belts. You stomach makes a violent protest, but you brain almost weeps with relief.
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> "Who are you?" you ask the woman directly. She smiles and lets out a shy, grandmotherly little chuckle. She says she didn't expect you to remember last night, that you had, repeatedly, warned her that you wouldn't. Her demeanor is so warm and kind, you begin to worry that you have fucked this woman, that you have fucked this elderly woman and now she is in love with you and wants to move her posture-pedic bed into your apartment. You ask her, with greater urgency, who she is, and you tip another shot into your mouth.
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> She says that she wants to hear the end of your story. She says that last night you came into the cafe that she owns, carrying a bottle of wine. Before she could tell you to leave, you began telling a story, a wonderful story, but you got too drunk and didn't finish it. So she got you into a cab and made sure you got home and slept on the couch because she very much wants to hear the end of your story.
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> You tell her that you don't recall telling any story. She expects this. She says that it's the story about the children in the forest. You must know it, it was too wonderful to have just been made up. You shrug. You don't know any stories about any children in the forest. Unless it's Hansel and Gretel. Was it Hansel and Gretel? It was not. Well, that's the only child/forest story you know.
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> She tells you that it was a very beautiful story and it made her cry and she very much wants to know the end of it. Your mind churns through the possibilities: this woman is crazy, she is about to ask for money, she is going to rob you, she wants to get your information so she can have you arrested, the cops are already on their way and she's stalling. But the pleading look in her eyes is quite convincing. She does just want to hear the story. The vodka is starting loosen the paranoia's grip. You take another sip. How many drinks was that? Two? OK, don't want to get too drunk too early. No more drinking for the next hour. You take another sip. If you can't drink for the next hour, you'll need that last sip.
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> You sit down on the couch next to her. The sweet relief of the vodka is melting away some of your anxiety, and you let out a big sigh. You ask her to tell you some of the story, maybe it will jog your memory. She insists that she can't tell it as good as you told it, but you brush her protests aside. She begins to tell you the story.
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> In her warm grandmotherly voice, she begins to tell you about the magical children who lived in the forest, who danced and sang and never died, who fought bravely against the nightmare forces of the ancient queen. It really is a beautiful story, and the woman tells it so well, with lots of nice little touches that make you giggle softly. You see in your mind for a moment the sunlight through the fluttering leaves and smell the apple-scented air, so much sweeter and freer than anything your tiny grim shithole apartment full of empty bottles. And once again your eyes grow damp. You have heard, from various people at various times, the beginning of this story, but you have never heard the end. Perhaps it has none.
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