Ficly

When did it become Tuesday?

Julian Stevens emerged from the toilet bowl feeling better but looking substantially worse. The diced carrot swam merrily in the pan for a while, waving to him. He reached up and clung to the chain as to the winch rope of a rescue helicopter. He seemed to remember the room: it was, almost definitely, the flat he moved into yesterday, but how had he got into it in this condition?

Looking upwards in the direction of the sink, he caught sight of the clock reflected in the mirror. He was sick again. Mostly in the toilet.

It was Tuesday. He’d moved in on Thursday.


It took him several minutes to crawl to the bedroom, piled with boxes. The bed was neat: obviously he hadn’t been on it last night. He was about to turn away when he noticed a crisp, neatly folded piece of notepaper that had been placed carefully in the exact centre of the bed.

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