Head Start

Head Start

By Jennifer Gaenzle

Oh, God did Aaron’s head hurt! Jesus he must have drunk a whole beer keg himself last night. He rolled over on the bed and stared at himself in the mirror on the closet door. Wow, he almost could have passed as the Grim reaper he was so pale.

He looked at the clock on the nightstand and it took him a minute to realize it read 7:35! Great, now he was late for work as well! He jumped up, ran to the bathroom to perform a quick marine shower, you know, brush your teeth, splash water through your hair, comb it, deodorant, a spritz of aftershave or cologne and you were out the door.

He needed to do laundry, so he found a pair of pants from a few days ago, that weren’t too wrinkled, a shirt and tie from the closet, grabbed the jacket hanging over a kitchen chair, his briefcase and was running down his apartment building’s hall to the elevator. On the way down, he checked himself in the chrome surrounding the level buttons. He tucked in his shirt and as he reached up to adjust his collar and tie, he could feel a strange stiffness in his right shoulder. That was weird, he didn’t remember a bar fight in his travels last night. He’d have to call Greg later and have him help refresh his memory.
He hated when he missed all the good parts when they went out drinking.

As the day wore on, his shoulder seemed to bother him more and more. By 3:00pm it was pretty near driving him nuts, first it would burn, then itch like he had bugs. Finally at the end of his workday it had settled into just a dull ache.

On the way home on the train, he opened his cell phone and dialed Greg’s number.
“Yo, buddy, hey, how’s it hangin'?” asked Greg, when he saw the number come up on his cell.
“Uh, yeah” replied Aaron “Hey, what did we get into last night? My shoulder is killing me!”
“Well, man, it would be, after you decided to let that crazy woman outside the bar convince you, you needed a tattoo.”
“A tattoo? And you let me...I mean her?”
“Didn’t see as how I could stop you, you were dead set on it. We did try, but you came back swinging at us.”
“Oh. Great. I gotta go, I’ll talk to you later.” And Aaron rang off.

When he got home, Aaron went straight to the bathroom and started to take off his tie and shirt. Sure, enough there was the tattoo, red and oozing a little. It felt hot to his touch, like it was getting infected. What was it, he couldn’t even tell. He opened the medicine cabinet and smeared some antibacterial cream on it.

How could he be so stupid? Never in all his life had he been so stupid? He’d gotten drunk many times, what 20 something guy didn’t? But he always seemed to have some sort of control. Climbing into bed, it started to itch again as he drifted off to sleep.

He woke in the morning, almost mad with the itch and burning. Looking in the mirror he thought it looked different, but couldn’t quite tell. He put more salve on it, got dressed and went to work. All that day, it annoyed him. His temper grew short with his fellow workers. They looked at him quite strange which only made him glower more.
Again that night it seemed to have changed and looked even more red and swollen than in the morning. He took a bunch of aspirin, drank a shot of whiskey and went to bed.

By Thursday, he knew there was something wrong. It had gotten bigger and it hurt like the devil himself was in there. The lines had taken on more of a shape, like a pointed oval with about two-dozen other lines now coming off of it. He called the doctor for an appointment, but the soonest they could see him was on Monday. It would have to do.

That evening when he took his shower, he noticed that another line had appeared over all the others, and he swore he saw it move! He scrubbed at it, hoping he could clean out the infection. When he rubbed the cloth over it, he could feel it catch on something like a scab. He reached his fingers up to touch it and could feel some of the lines actually coming out of his skin, almost like little hairs. What was going on? What was this thing? It wasn’t just a simple tattoo, that witch must have used a dirty tattoo gun. He was never going to drink like that again!!

Friday, Greg called. “Hey, where are we going tonight?” he queried.
“No, not tonight,” replied Aaron, “This tattoo is a mess. It’s infected, hurts like hell, and really swollen.”
“Ah, come on, a little whiskey will do you good! It’ll make you forget it anyway, at least for a little while. I can’t go out alone.”
Reluctantly Aaron agreed, maybe it would take his mind off of it. It had gotten much larger and it was more distinct than what it was. It almost made him sick to look at it now.
That evening when he got home from work, he went in the bathroom to get ready for a night out.
He could see the lump under his shirt, it had grown to the point where he was not going to be able to hide it anymore. He took off his shirt, and stared at what he saw in the mirror. The tattoo had grown into a face! He jumped in the shower, and scrubbed vigorously at it. He got out and dried off and looked once more in the mirror. The face was looking back at him and even the eyes followed him when he moved around! Great how was he going to go to doctor and explain this on Monday? He put on his shirt and jacket and headed out the door. Greg was right he needed a drink, a strong one! He swore he heard someone say, “No you don’t,” but it must have been in his mind.

He got home around 2am. It was all he could do to stay out that late. He felt as if everyone was looking at him all night. And Greg was so drunk, he just kept telling Aaron he was crazy, to relax and have a good time.

He went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He was starting to be afraid to look in the mirror at what he would see. He almost screamed! The face smiled at him! “Oh, my god, I need a drink.” he thought. “No you don’t” came an equally strong thought. “What do you think got you into this in the first place?” The face smiled at him again.
What? It could talk to him now? Oh, this was grand, he had to be going crazy. Maybe it was just a dream. He pinched his arm. “Hey, stop that! Pinch your own arm if you want to!” This time it had spoken out loud! It had grown to almost four inches off his shoulder, and at least that big around. It almost made his own head look like it had shrunk. No wonder everyone had stared at him all night. He really needed a shot of whiskey!
He went to the kitchen, opened the cabinet and pulled out the bottle and a glass.
This time the head yelled at him, “Put that away! You don’t need a drink. Your too young to throw your life away in a bottle.”
“Oh, cork it!” muttered Aaron as he poured out a healthy measure in the glass.
“You’ll be sorry” stated the head.
“Yeah, like you can do anything about it”
The head just smiled.

Saturday, Aaron woke, groggy and foggy. He washed his face, without looking in the mirror. He was afraid of what he would see.
“You can’t ignore me” stated the face. “I’m not going away anytime soon.”
Aaron looked up and saw that the head had grown again, and this time he was sure of it. His own head had shrunk.
“No, your not imagining it, I’m getting stronger!” and the face smiled.

The rest of the day, Aaron, continued to drink, trying to forget the thing growing from his shoulder. By evening, he had passed out on the couch, the head lay next to him, watching a movie on the TV.

Sunday, Aaron awoke and this time didn’t waste anytime, he went to the mirror to see how far things had progressed. The head was almost three quarters of full size, while his own had shrunk to half. He staggered to the kitchen, crying in pain and fear. His headache was worse than ever, and he was having trouble focusing. He grabbed the bottle off the counter, and poured some into the dirty glass. He swallowed it, enjoying the warmth of the whiskey as it burned down his throat. He reached for the phone and called himself off sick from work for Monday.

He woke on Monday afternoon, his head pounding like a dozen jackhammers inside his skull. He looked in the mirror and saw the head was almost full size. His own had shrunk to a quarter it’s original. He was having a hard time controlling the right side of his body. Every time he headed for the kitchen, the right side of his body resisted, like it had a mind of it’s own.
“That’s it, keep washing your brain down your throat” said the head.

“Shut-up!” his little voice squeaked. It was getting harder to get the whiskey in his ever-shrinking mouth. He left the head call him out of work for Tuesday, it was easier that trying to explain why his voice sounded like he had been kicked in the privates.

Tuesday afternoon he woke and couldn’t turn his head. He seemed to have a continuous view of the ceiling. The head called him off of work for Wednesday. This was getting crazy, he would lose his job soon.
“No, we won’t let that happen," said the head.
His body went into the bathroom and he could feel his hand pick up the toothpaste and brush. As he leaned down to brush his teeth, he screamed. He could finally see in the mirror. The head had grown to full size and he was now just a face on his left shoulder. The head smiled.

Friday he got a call from Greg, as he was getting into his sweats and settling in for the night.
“Hey, buddy, where are we headed for tonight?"
“Nowhere.”
“Ah, come on man, I’m ready to party!”
“Sorry, I don’t drink anymore,” replied the head.
“Wow, that was a fast turn around, must have been the tattoo,” said Greg surprised.
“Yeah, must be.”
“Hey, how is that thing doing? I heard you were out of work a few days.”
“Oh it’s doing much better,” replied the head, as he looked in the mirror and watched a tear slip from the corner of the single eye on his left shoulder.
“I’m having it removed tomorrow.”

Word count - 1921