Last Night Out. Flash Fiction.

Daniel opened his eyes and waited for the inevitable pain and nausea to hit. They didn’t. He rubbed his head gently, no throbbing headache, his mouth wasn’t dry and his tongue wasn’t thick, there was no aftertaste of booze or cigarettes. He sat up slowly, afraid that any wrong move would finally trigger his body into realising it was hungover. He looked around his room, nothing seemed to be broken. He checked his phone, which drunk-Daniel had thoughtfully charged for him during the night. There were no texts asking where he was, no drunken gibberish. Good. This was shaping up to be a good morning. He couldn’t remember much of the night before, but then that wasn’t wholly unusual. He knew he had gone out for drinks with the gang, but after a drink or two things just went kind of blank. He stood from bed and stretched, there were no mysterious aches or pains, no bruises. What ever had happened last night must have been fairly tame. It had been a long time since he had woken up feeling this good, never mind after a night of drinking.

He made his way downstairs and threw on some coffee for himself, he always felt like he was a bit slow until he had his first cup. While he waited he checked the fridge. There wasn’t a whole lot in it, normally at this point he would be too hungover for food and he usually ordered takeaway later on in the day. He grabbed out the ham and lettuce, there were some slices of stale bread left still. He made himself a sandwich then ate it with his coffee. He was feeling good, damn good. He looked at his phone again wondering if he should text someone, try to find out what happened the night before. He noticed the time, it was 10 A.M. no one else would be up yet, hell, he shouldn’t even be up yet. Waking up around midday was usually the earliest he could expect. Maybe something had happened on the night out, like he got roofied or something. Did you feel well rested after getting roofied? He shrugged, it was unlikely anyway. He would have gotten texts asking where he was at the least. What ever he had done he had done it with friends.

An hour later and still there were no memories. Normally he would get flashes, little snippets of conversation, or retching into a toilet, or on the street, friends jeering behind him. Finally he sent a quick text off to a few people, “Crazy night last night huh?” and waited. It wasn’t long before he got replies. “Man yeah, I don’t remember any of it, though I feel fine.” The story was the same from everyone. Everyone woke up feeling fine with barely any memory of the night before after a drink or two.

Everyone had gotten home safely, no one was injured, so overall it seemed to have been a successful night out, despite the lack of memory. He was watching TV when he got a text from Samantha, “Omg. Why did you guys let me get a tattoo last night?” followed by a picture of her foot, there under her big toe was a small black 2.
“That’s a weird tattoo, least its not something crazy big though!” It wasn’t the first time someone in their friend group had gotten a drunken tattoo, though it was definitely the smallest and least embarrassing. Another text popped up on his screen, “Omg. I have one too. Did we all get it done?” Frowning Daniel checked his foot and there under his big toe was a small, black 2. He poked at it, expecting to feel pain, but there was nothing. Maybe it was marker? It looked like a tattoo, but one that was healed. No way had it only been done the night before. A few more texts came in, each one saying they had it as well. Must have been a group thing. He shook his head, in the group chat they were talking about another night out. The consensus seemed to be a small house party rather than going clubbing again. Everyone seemed to just want a quiet, relaxing evening. It was a little unusual, but Daniel agreed with them. Maybe their partying had gotten a little out of hand. They were all grown up now, they should be acting more responsible. He absentmindedly scratched at his toe, he looked down and saw the tattoo and smiled. At least he would have a constant reminder of his crazy days.

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About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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