"Dammit, who moved the light switch?" said the shadowy figure, looming in the hall. He knew he was in the right place, well fairly certain at least, but the early morning hours were never his best for navigation. The figure swayed, looking in as many directions as possible simultaneously - seeing nothing. "Someone's always up to something, aren't they," he said to himself, "always trying their best to pull one over on poor ol' Nicklas Nickel. "Well, I'll have none of that, thank you very much," Nick said.

With a flop he resigned himself to the floor, landing awkwardly on his side. With a groan and exaggerated movement he sat up, seeing the light of his computer in the next room.

"Dammit, not the computer too! Bastards, that's B and E, that's trespassing . . . " the rant continued as he began crawling towards the light. " . . . that's down right rude, that's, that's, that's . . . hey! that's exactly where it's supposed to be."

And indeed it was. Perhaps due to the excess volume of alcohol imbibed over that day, mixed with lack of sleep, and an over-active sense of paranoia, the things in his own apartment seemed to conspire against him, leaving Nick feeling confused and embarrassed.

"So, you all think this is a grand joke, huh? Pullin one over on poor ol' Nick, huh?" he said, casting an accusatory finger at each, "well I'll tell you somethin', it ain't gonna work, right? You came close, I'll give ya that, but close isn't close enough. Now, get that blasted light switch back out here, because I still don't see it and I damn well better real quick."

He looked, in time with the blipping screen of the computer to see the switch exactly where it was supposed to be as well, where it had always been in fact. This made him nervous. He turned, looking back at where he came in, the front door of course, to find that it was in fact not the front door that he had come in. Broken glass, tinkling in the darkened house looked eerily like flashing lights, a neon sign pointing back to the now permanently open and drafty bay window as if saying, "look over here, over here. Right there, yep, that's where you were a complete drunken mess that is. Do you feel better now?"

Of course he didn't, but there was nothing for that. Besides, it's a difficult thing to register misfortune through the haze of lager and gin, and such things are always better left for the morning, when you invariably will be feeling at your worst.

Nick cocked his head, letting out an inhaled burp, and slumping down in his desk chair. He swiveled around, getting lost in the sheer glee of it until inertia, made him feel sick. He stopped, steadied himself, and clicked open his latest project, an essay on responsibility.

Learn more about this author, Corey Adam Scott.
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