Leon Wirth: A Short Story

When Leon Wirth awoke, a strange, warm green light filled his eyes with an uncomfortable brightness; he absently stretched his hands into what felt like earth. He knew immediately that he was somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere he had not intended to sleep, somewhere perhaps, he was not supposed to be. He searched his mind, his body, for context, explanation, but instead, felt only confusion and a hollow stab in his temple that indicated he was experiencing a throbbing hangover. Suddenly, Leon felt a sharp pain shoot up his spine; the pain was severe, so much so, that it seemed to leave the taste of burnt almonds in his mouth. He thought of cyanide. He became vaguely aware that his body was sprawled out over a grated surface. Leon thought that

Leon pushed his hand through his hair, leaving heavy marks of dirt on his face and ears. His ears began to ring, but seeing, on the other hand, suddenly became easier. He looked up and saw he was inside of a greenhouse. He had been sleeping, some feet above where he was now, on an empty shelf. Perhaps, he thought, he had emptied it at some point in the night, as there was an array of smashed pots on the floor, but he could not be certain. Leon had no recollection of where he was or how he got there, after all, let alone whether or not he had been the sole destroyer of the potted plants. There was something about those odd, broken pieces of pottery that looked wrong, that seemed wrong and filled him with a sense of great dread. It was then that Leon attempted to stand, but his legs were wobbly and his knees wouldn’t quite stay put, but then again, neither would the floor. The whole of his vision seemed to shift and stir like a kaleidoscope or oil on water as he attempted to remove his ass from the pot of petunias. It became abundantly clear to him then, he would need more than a moment to adjust to the waking

At first, he figured it must have to do with drinking, so, naturally, he gave up on alcohol entirely. He threw out or gave away all of booze, he stopped going to bars and pubs, even restaurants that alcohol was served in. But none of these precautions seemed to help in the slightest, as he continued to find empty bottles, corks, beer cans, et cetera in his vicinity, suggesting that alcohol had been an integral part of his night, regardless of how hard he tried to stay away from it. The only possible explanation seemed to be that there was another