DO NOT DISTURB

An unfamiliar room. Blood-red bed sheets. Light ghosting in from a nearby streetlight. Hands nailed to the headboard.

This is how I found myself on the morning after the night before. Pain coursing through my body the way blood moves through veins. Not excruciating pain, though. The sensation crossing my arms hit the nerve centre of my brain like the beginnings of a bad headache. The nails appeared to have been hammered-in in a well thought out manner, missing all bones as well as most veins and arteries causing only a mild tingling sensation at the point of impact, nothing more.

I looked down (well, whatever constitutes as down from my vantage point) first at myself, and then at my surroundings, checking every detail over carefully in an attempt to deduce a transparent reason for my current predicament. As transparent as blood. The foremost issue was, evidently, to check my own body over to see what state I was in. If my hands had been nailed down who knows what would have been done to the rest of me. There appeared to be no significant cuts and bruises that warranted further investigation. The only mark on my upper body that drew my attention was a mark, an X, on the right hand side of my ribcage. Obviously a marker for what was to be done next. I scanned down to my feet, taking measured glances through the din light radiated from a shuttered window, my eyes blinking more frequently than usual, like window-wipers clearing the water from a windscreen caught out in bad weather. This was more from exhaustion than in reaction to the pain I was experiencing. I do not cry. I notice now that my feet are bound, rather than nailed, to the foot of the bed. I realise that the reason this had not occurred to me earlier is that my feet are void of feeling. The perfect bowline knot, a knot that shows skill possessed by the master outdoorsman, has cut off circulation to my feet leaving them as numb as the wooden headboard which I can faintly feel with my blood-soaked fingertips, if I try really hard.

Surveying the room I notice one thing immediately; I am not alone. At the sight of the blackened-out mass in the left-hand corner of the room my heart jumps into my mouth. Normally I would wear my heart on my sleeve, but with no clothes on my person save for a tattered loincloth, unlikely to have been a regular fashion accessory since the years BC, partially covering a section below my waist my mouth seems like the safest place for it. In his own dark corner of the room I can recognise few distinguishing details. He is obviously what I would call a ‘big guy’; that much I can tell from the He-man shaped silhouette he creates. He appears to be standing watching me, though I cannot see his eyes. How long has this been going on? This surreal scene, similar to one I may have one viewed in a poor quality horror-movie, where one man lies Christ-like on a bed, wearing nothing but a cloth to conceal his unmentionables; the other man, presuming it is a man, standing in the corner like a statue making sure the first man doesn’t move. How could I? In this scenario I too am an outsider.

In a sharp aversion of my eyes upwards to avoid becoming entranced by this mysterious figure, a magnificent chandelier bursts to life. It occurs to me at once that this room is the honeymoon suite. The past few days nit me like a bolt from the blue; some long forgotten dream. The wedding. I can picture my wonderful wife with her long, flowing, cream-coloured dress (she didn’t believe that white would have been appropriate). I remember looking into her glistening blues, shining like diamonds, catching the sunlight through the stained-glass window. But that moment is long gone now and here I am. Where is she?

As my senses return to full capacity my head begins to throb incessantly. I can smell the putrid aroma of dried blood and urine. My ears are filled with a persistent ringing, like a fire-alarm is going off less than two feet away. My hands are on fire.

Only when I attempt to scream do I feel the duct-tape across my mouth. All that manages to make it through is a muffled groan. ‘Angela! I think we have a live one.’ A familiar voice. The mysterious figure speaks with a pre-established authority. This is not his first time. ‘Just a minute!’ the call comes from the bathroom, signalling that a female presence is among us. I presume she is preparing a crown of thorns to be placed on my battered head.

With this realisation it occurs to me that it is not a ringing that I hear, but a drilling. Strange time to do DIY. It now sounds to me as though the noise were a pneumatic drill crushing a human skull. My muffled screams return. I wonder how no-one has heard this, or is reacting to it. Then again, it is probably best to obey the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door of the honeymoon suite.

Angela appears through the door of the ensuite, shrouded in light. The faint rays surrounding the cardboard cut-out appear to stretch from her further than should be possible, creating a supernatural aura. Blood oozing from the bathroom below her feet. As the light goes out I realise she is carrying, not a holy script and a scythe, but a spear and a large wooden baton. Holding the spear close to her chest she hands the mysterious figure the baton. Glancing at him I notice he is kneeling to receive it. This looks to me like it may be some sort of Pagan ritual. Except this is not Pagan, but Biblical. On handing over the baton she approaches me and says in a hushed tone; ‘We are here to cleanse you of all your previous sins. Cleanse the world.’

As the mysterious figure approaches the bed, wielding the baton like an implement of certain death, I think back and a moment pops into my head, unable to be forgotten:                     

It was two nights beforehand; my Stag party. Excitement filled the air around our table. A grave sense of anticipation gripped each and every one of us. I sat down next to my father, thinking I could see a lonely tear in his eye., and put my arm around him; ‘Nothing will change,’ I informed him, ‘I will only ever be a phone-call away.’

As drink began to flow, Gregory, my best man, fetched a second round of shots and I finished telling a rather distasteful story with the line ‘Her Catholic background certainly didn’t hold her back there.’ A chorus of cheers erupted from my dozen or so friends. It occurred to me, at this point, that I needed to open the flood-gates. Scampering off to the bathroom I caught sight of, out of the corner of my eye, someone I knew I recognised. Without any time to dawdle, I voided my bladder and decided to get a better look at him on the way back. On closer inspection it came to me that it had to be Mary’s brother, Gabriel. In his face I saw a reflection of his dad, Mary’s father, who died just six months previous. Mary being my fiancée, of course I asked Gabriel to join in the festivities a number of weeks before the night in question. Evidently, he ‘had plans’. At some moment it occurred to me that I had been staring at him for quite some time, standing open-mouthed by the bar. It also struck me that he hadn’t blinked once, or averted his gaze, yet I had been at the bar for at least five minutes. Only when the bartender asked nicely ‘Can I get you anything, Sir?’ as though it were the third or fourth time he had done so did I jump into action, politely declining the proffered help, and returning to my party.

Returning to the present day with a bang, thud, and wallop, I felt a pain unlike anything I had ever experienced before. The baton was resounding with frequent clinks on what was now no more than raw bone. My legs were in a poor state, that much I knew. I dared not look down. It also became evident that I had been screaming my muffled groans for some time now as my throat felt hoarse and no further sound was able to be made. I could feel the very air itself being sucked out of me as though through reverse mouth-to-mouth. As he retreated from me I noticed the name tag declaring him to be the property of the hotel; Gabriel.

There wasn’t much life left in me. As I rocked my head senselessly from side to side, like a rat mauled and shaken by a rabid terrier, I caught a glimpse of the spear reflecting the early morning light travelling over the nearby hills and through the window, now open to let in the scent of a new day. As the cool breeze floated over me I wondered if my mangled bride had been given the same final satisfaction as they pounded her head into the blood-soaked bathroom tiles. Did she experience the same pain I have experienced? Think the same thoughts that are now running round my head like a hamster in a wheel? I only hope her death was quick, for soon my life will be over, and none of my hopes will mean a thing.