F is for Fur.
Roger lay in bed, every time he opened his eyes the room span madly making him shut his eyes tight again. Downstairs he could hear the others getting on and knew that he too had to get up.
Ever so gradually, Roger held both hands tight round his face as he lifted his head off the pillow. With his eyes still tightly shut he made the familiar journey to the bathroom, only to misguide where the laundry basket was and stubbed his toe. Bright lights filled his head as he let out a yell. From downstairs his wife, Julie called up the stairs and told her husband not to cuss in front of the children.
Blindly, Roger reached out for the bathroom light-switch, pulled the cord, then quickly pulled it again to stop the roar of the extractor fan switching on and cutting through his delicate head. Gripping hold of the side of the sink, Roger slowly lowered his head and rested his forehead against the coolness of sink, but felt little benefit from doing so. With the same amount of effort, Roger slowly lifted his head back up and tried to recall just what he had been up to earlier to be feeling so dreadful now.
Still unwilling to open his eyes, Roger reached for his electric toothbrush, but shuddered at the though of turning it on and putting that noise inside his fragile head and so he just gently went over his teeth manually.
As he brushed, flashes of events earlier came into his head, he was sitting at his desk, with the blinds half way down blocking out blazing sunshine which sent a crack of pain through his head. As he flossed his teeth, his tongue felt furry as another flash came flooding in; this time he was standing by the water cooler hearing Sharon from accounts yabbling on about the latest c-celeb on TV, her on/off relationship with her boyfriend Barry and how’s although she’s starving, she has lost 2 pounds this week on the ‘Carrot diet’. “You can eat as many carrots as you like, juiced, shredded, sliced, boiled, steamed, grilled, but you can’t have them deep fried in batter which a real shame.”
Next Roger fills the sink with water and lathers up the bar of soap and vigorously washes his face. As he splashes cold water over his face another memory hits hard; the same droll day continues with his sitting in the staff canteen, looking at a piss weak cup of tea and a flaccid white roll filled with egg mayo. Across the table, Barry is moaning that he doesn’t quite know how to dump Sharon as he and his mates have a holiday booked in Magaluf and what they really want to do is get so drunk they throw up, get a tattoo (a devil in a diaper being the favourite) and then finding as many ‘birds’ as possible to shag.
The blandness of his day drags in more memories, his boss droning on about the next five year forecast being the most depressing thing that refuses to stop rattling around his head.
With a heavy sigh, Roger stumbles back into the bedroom, with anticipation of bright sunlight, pulls back the curtains and sees the full moon staring back. Holding his puny hands up to his face he watches as fur sweeps up hands and arms, torso, back and round and round his legs and feet.
The horror of his life as a clerk are put in check as he combs his fur across his cheeks, licks his teeth and joins his family for a night of hunting….he really hopes to bumps into his his boss, Barry and Sharon.