Out of Line


A power outage struck early on. The train of thoughts that was so vivid hours ago was somewhat diluted by another idea that meshed with the first. In a quirky turn of events, I feel I should I write a semi-autobiographical story, mixing fact and fiction.


 The first object I saw when I opened my eyes was the familiar rectangular bottle of Vodka: it was standing beside the lampshade, empty.

I never imagined myself drinking that much because I was almost a teetotataler in every sense of the word. People had to force me to take a sip just to test my firm resolve. Often they surrendered after their teasing fell on deaf ears.

The alarm clock showed six in the morning but when I looked at the window, with the curtains partially moved to the side, I could only see darkness. I naturally concluded it was evening.

I stood up, my eyes half closed, my feet feeling my way through the carpeted floor.

Carpeted floor? My feet probably sent a wrong signal to my brain. Where I lived, the last time I checked, we had wooden floors.

Don’t panic! I told my brain. Miscommunication happened all the time.

Everyday, I checked my face if a pimple escaped inspection the day before. At least, I could prevent one from appearing full blown with a quick-acting medication.

What’s happened!

My face was filled with craters, zits and blackheads. What’s more horrifying to discover was that it was not my face at all. Who was the guy reflected on the mirror? It wasn’t me. I was positive my ancestry was remotely Slavic.

The door suddenly opened. A smiling person respectfully bowed and spoke gibberish.

NO! Not gibberish. He talked in a foreign language I could not understand.

He approached me and offered a card with Cyrillic letters written on it. I’ve seen the Russian alphabet before. If I could guess correctly, I was inhabiting a body I did not own. A well-off Russian, for that matter.

The butler, which I assumed he was, moved his mouth with honor like he spoke in front of large audience in Red Square. Well, he might have been an orator once.

I remained silent. I should because I could only remember two local words.

He pointed to a large, no gigantic closets, where I supposed my clothes hung.

I nodded while he continued talking, probably praising me which I was not aware of.

When he tried to ask for my opinion, the fact that he stopped uttering unintelligible words to me and raised his eyebrows, I waited for some inspiration to come. Nothing.

“Nyet?” I asked without confidence but displaying a stern look to somewhat scare him a bit.

He continued talking, his hands waving excitedly and finally laughing to conclude the monologue.

“Da! Da!” I interjected, halting his apparent celebration.

The butler bowed his head and retreated immediately out the door. I was not sure why did so.

So, I was alone once again, trying to figure out where I left my body.

Then, a frightening realization made me nervous. If I was here, the spirit who owned this body was probably in mine. Or somewhere else, still floating around, dreaming.

I ran to the bed and tried to induce sleep. I should count a thousand sheep just to make sure I doze off in a flash.

The last thing I heard was the clock sounding its alarm.



2 thoughts on “Out of Line

    1. If there was no power outage, the story could have been different. The Thriller video triggered some nightmarish but funny episodes. I know the idea sounds fantastic but we’ll see what my spirit discovers later.
      Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts. 🙂

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