Do We Not Bleed?

Good morning Peter, it's seven o'clock and time to get up.

Good morning Peter, its seven..

He turned over, "Oh for chrissakes shut up!" he groaned at the alarm.

The electronic box obeyed his command and he lay there for a moment trying to gather his thoughts. His head ached and his mouth felt dry and metallic. Slowly he opened his eyes. He stared at the white expanse of ceiling above his head, what the hell had he done last night? His mind was a blank and the more he struggled to collect his thoughts the harder it became to concentrate.

As his eyes strayed towards the curtained window he noticed a small dark spot flicker across his vision from the right corner to the left. He looked at it and it flitted away. He'd have to get his eyes checked that bloody floater was getting worse and worse.

He raised his head experimentally a couple of inches from the pillow and the headache increased with the altitude.

"Jesus Christ!" he said and flopped back, the room spun around him.

Slowly he began to piece together the previous evening...

He had been down the pub with...who the hell had he been with? Ah now he remembered, it had been Jason from the computer section, of course...they were celebrating the break through. The project was almost finished. Today was power up day. Today they would know whether or not it would work and if its psyche would stand the shock.

He had to get up and go to the lab, of all days today had to be the day when he had the mother of all hangovers, at least he hoped it was a hang-over and not a bloody brain hemorrhage.

Very carefully he turned onto his side, then levered himself upright to a semi-sitting position. The room settled down and the floater wavered into view again. He flicked his eyes to the side and the small black dot shot out of vision again. Gingerly he stepped into his slippers and cautiously rose to his feet.

The bathroom called to him like an oasis to a desert-lost man and he stumbled towards its promise of a refreshing shower and glass of cold water.

The water poured down his throat, it slaked his thirst but the strange taste of metal remained on his palate.

He looked at himself in the mirror and wasn't pleased with what he saw. His face seemed pallid. His eyes stared back at him and he frowned. They were blue, he always thought that they were grey, it must be the light he thought. He ran a hand across his jaw and was surprised at its smoothness, usually he would have slight stubble, perhaps he had shaved late last night before going out?

Automatically he sprayed the foam onto his palm and rubbed it into his chin, he fumbled for his safety razor and carefully drew it across his face. A few moments later he scraped the last piece of foam away from his throat and jumped instinctively when the blade nicked into the skin.

"Damm and blast!" he said as he washed the last piece of foam off and prepared to stem the flow of blood with a piece of tissue he had torn from the nearby toilet roll.

He held the tissue to the cut for a second and then took it away. The pain subsided and he looked at the cut, he fingered the small piece of skin and was surprised to find that it wasn't bleeding. He looked at the piece of toilet paper and was surprised yet again. There wasn't a single drop of blood on that either. Normally he bled like a pig when he cut himself. It had to be dehydration or something he imagined. At least he wouldn't have to walk around with a piece of tissue over the wound to soak up the blood before it marked the collar of a white shirt. More often than not he walked around with the tissue for hours until someone pointed it out or he spotted it in a mirror. He finally shrugged and stepped into the shower.