New Clothes, Old Me

They say you see stars, and he did.

But not the cartoon ones that spin around in a perfect halo. More like misshapen chunks of rock, clunking around his field of vision. Eventually they eroded away but the headache did not.

It was like someone with a pickaxe was intent on splitting his skull, and with each blow, he winced.

Around him was dimly lit, and for that he was thankful. Any brighter and he would have been blinded by the migraine. Any darker, it would have been impossible to make out where he was. Not that he knew where he was exactly - only that he was lying on a thin mattress atop a single bed.

As he blinked away the last of the rubble, a window came into focus. The drapes were pulled back. Though dark out, the moonlight was enough to deepen the shadows and draw out the furniture. A stout armchair and rather out-of-place dining chair were huddled at the foot of the bed, and a small coffee table made for a tight squeeze in between. In the corner of the room, a porcelain sink protruded from the wall and, above it, the moonlight glinted off a mirror. Next, a tall cabinet carried a TV on top that looked directly at him.

It gave a blank and silent stare.

His eyes shifted further. A wardrobe to his right. He strained further still. Beside the headboard, where his head throbbed on a flimsy pillow, –

A door.

Unable to keep his head up, he fell back and released a breathy groan. Facing toward the empty seats and viewless window once again, he could just about see his own outline: a dark shape reflected in the glass.

Now that he (sort of) knew where he was – a stranger's bedroom, one he did not recognize – a wave of regret passed over him. Though he could not recall any details, he suspected it had happened again.

Too much booze.

He groaned, disappointed.

Another late night down the pub, sinking pints like a storm drain in a flood. More hours lost to oblivion. More explanations to fabricate.

She was sure to leave him now.

There was no clock in the room - and his wristwatch, he discovered, was cracked - but maybe it wasn’t too late to convince her that he deserved another chance. Work was hard right now. The firm was on thin ice (for longer than he cared to admit).

Forgive me, Joyce.

He had to get back to her. Promise her that it would all be fine.

The door.

He tried to sit up, but the pickaxe came down on him harder than ever and pinned him to the spot.

Goddamnit.

Lying there, he cursed his helpless body on the bed.

You fool. You drunken –

Then he noticed something.

His shoes.

Not the black brogues he wore to work every day, but a pair of light-colored slip-ons. Perhaps the Good Samaritan who picked him up had swapped them out, seeing how overused the soles were.

What good people there are in this world.

He felt another wave of guilt crash over him.

Then he noticed his bottom-half.

Sweatpants.

They were not his either. Not his style, far too casual. In fact, he would never be caught dead in them. Not even on a weekend. Not even to nip out for milk and a paper.

Then a sharp twinge of embarrassment when it occurred to him.

Could he have soiled himself?

Had the Good Samaritan given him, not only a bed for the night, but a change of bottoms to sober up in too?

But wait.

Now what about his shirt? And suit jacket? Where was his tie? His favorite, too. Queen's Park F.C. Come on, you Spiders!

Instead, he wore a linen shirt and a pullover or cardigan.

He had been stripped and changed into a different outfit - into clothes that weren't his

(but seemed to fit)

Had he really have made such a mess of himself as to be given a top-to-bottom makeover? And by whom exactly? Whose clothes were they?

The Good Samaritan.

He couldn't help but think that the Good Samaritan had some nerve. Changing him like he was a baby? He did not love the idea of being so vulnerable in the care of someone else. It was demeaning. The Good Samaritan should have saved them both the trouble and called the police instead.

He had friends there.

He glanced at the wardrobe. Perhaps his clothes were hung up inside, ready for him to retrieve in the morning. But time was of the essence. He had to leave now – preferably not in a strange outfit. He had enough to explain, and enough to make up for.

By now, his headache had eased. It was less pickaxe, more woodpecker – a tolerable discomfort, and he was able to sit up, even stand, though he was unsteady and –

Christ!

He was as stiff as a dry twig and felt just as delicate, like he could snap at any moment. It was as if he had aged a hundred years in only a few hours. Perhaps the worst hangover he’d ever had - and that was saying something.

Ashamed, he reached for the wardrobe. The clothes were neatly hung and, though it was dark, he could have sworn they were color coordinated. It looked oddly like his wife’s work; she was a stickler for tidiness and organization. And unless he was mistaken, they smelled awfully like the laundry powder she used too.

He was suddenly overcome with fondness, and gratitude.

What ever did I do to deserve you, Joyce?

He patted the clothes and went through each item but not one suit. Perhaps the Good Samaritan had taken it for cleaning. Great. He tried one more time when another linen shirt slipped from the hanger. On picking it up – an effort greater than expected – he noticed black marker on the label inside the collar, but he could not decipher the words.

Curious, he moved over to the window, where the moonlight was brighter.

He squinted until the words miraculously popped, and what he read caught a tight hold of his breath.

The words, scrawled in black ink:

BILL YULE.

Seeing his own name like that startled him. Perplexed, he looked back to the wardrobe, then charged toward it. He rifled through the rest.

His name appeared on every single label.

What on Earth…

Maybe the Good Samaritan was not who they appeared to be, but a deranged (yet impeccably organized) psychopath who filed away their unsuspecting victims for unfathomable ends? A stretch, perhaps. But as a criminal lawyer, he had witnessed real nightmares - and made enemies of their monsters.

The door.

He pressed his ear to the door with a hand wrapped around the handle. Nothing on the other side – at least, that is what it sounded like. Nothing. He drew a breath and turned the doorknob. To his surprise, it clicked open. He drew another breath and slowly pulled the door towards him - just a sliver.

Out there was brightly lit.

He pulled the door in further.

A hallway appeared.

And across from him, another door. Then another. And another, until his own door was wide open, and he had stepped all the way out. Looking up and down, the corridor was empty. Just rows of doors on either side and picture frames on the manila-papered walls. Mostly black-and-white photographs of old townscapes, or artist impressions of the Scottish countryside.

Then he noticed the names.

On every door hung a sign with a name on it. Most had a photograph taped underneath too - he assumed they were of the room's occupant. Though he did not recognize any of the names – Ada Mackintosh, Jack McGregor, Stella Black, Martin Shaw, Brian Pollock – each photograph shared in common:

An elderly face.

The occupants were all old – ancient – far beyond his age. So, that begged the question: What was he doing there?

A voice cried out suddenly.

From one of the rooms, though he couldn't tell which. An indecipherable moan. A long desperate moan that echoed loudly through the hallway. No words were necessary to understand that the voice belonged to someone in pain.

It was a harrowing and sorrowful pain, that begged for relief.

Somewhere nearby, a door banged. Footsteps marched toward him. He retreated quickly back into “his” room but not before he noticed the sign on his own door:

BILL YULE.

He closed it over quietly and stepped backwards, nearly tripping over the mess of clothes on the floor. A shadow passed behind the creases in the door. Then the wailing of his neighbor got louder as their door was opened. A more youthful voice joined the party and though it was too muffled to hear specifics, he could tell that the younger was attempting to placate the older.

It all became too much.

He felt the immediate urge to spew and shambled over to the sink as quickly as he could. Nothing but bile came up. Folded over, he turned one of the taps and splashed icy water over his face.

But something felt different.

He felt different. The way his face felt... it was different. It wasn't his. It was more leathery. Rough. Sagging. Like a mask. But it wouldn't come off.

It. Wouldn't. Come. Off.

It-wouldn't-come-off!

He lurched back, and in the mirror before him, an old stranger looked aghast.