When you wake up, you’re on the floor in the closet, but it’s not your closet. There are loads of hats, women’s hats, and a sea of black everywhere: black stockings, black dresses, and black skirts. In the middle of the tight space, on a shelf, there are wigs too.
Your mouth is dry, and your body aches. What is happening? You touch your face and lick your lips before you hear laughter, and then boom, a door slams!
“Don't move,” a voice says, a woman with crooked teeth stands over you.
“Who are you? Where am I?” you cough.
The strange woman begins to click her tongue, “Never mind that, your husband’s in the den. Both of you drank too much at the office party, I was nice enough to bring you here.” She begins to whistle and rummage through shelves, while she’s telling you about hats, the red one, she wore on Tuesdays, the silver one she wore on Fridays, that blue one, your husband loved, said it matched her eyes. The woman kisses the air and you feel dizzy. She mumbles on about black hats, leather hats, and denim baseball hats until you are overwhelmed, and manage to rise, get to your feet.
“I need out of here,” you mumble.
“Alright, good…here’s your keys.” she snorts.
You quickly walk to the door, your husband’s passed out in the recliner, mouth open like a sleepy child as you move toward him before the strange woman stops you, pops out with her velvet hat and fake smile right in front of that mantel with all those snapshots.
1-2-3-4–5-6, there are six to be exact. Photos of the woman, your husband posing, hugging, laughing behind the flash of the camera like a B rated-movie in slow motion, the one with the cheap ending.
Your mouth is dry, and your body aches. What is happening? You touch your face and lick your lips before you hear laughter, and then boom, a door slams!
“Don't move,” a voice says, a woman with crooked teeth stands over you.
“Who are you? Where am I?” you cough.
The strange woman begins to click her tongue, “Never mind that, your husband’s in the den. Both of you drank too much at the office party, I was nice enough to bring you here.” She begins to whistle and rummage through shelves, while she’s telling you about hats, the red one, she wore on Tuesdays, the silver one she wore on Fridays, that blue one, your husband loved, said it matched her eyes. The woman kisses the air and you feel dizzy. She mumbles on about black hats, leather hats, and denim baseball hats until you are overwhelmed, and manage to rise, get to your feet.
“I need out of here,” you mumble.
“Alright, good…here’s your keys.” she snorts.
You quickly walk to the door, your husband’s passed out in the recliner, mouth open like a sleepy child as you move toward him before the strange woman stops you, pops out with her velvet hat and fake smile right in front of that mantel with all those snapshots.
1-2-3-4–5-6, there are six to be exact. Photos of the woman, your husband posing, hugging, laughing behind the flash of the camera like a B rated-movie in slow motion, the one with the cheap ending.
