Perhaps It Was Space Aliens.
It is late Sunday morning. I am in bed, asleep. I awake.
‘Ouch.’ I think to myself. ‘That is quite a headache.’
I was In The Pub the previous evening.
Slowly, I sit up. I notice a number of things. First of all, my pillow is still attached to the side of my face. With some discomfort, I peel it off. It is covered in blood. As are my bedsheets.
I look at my hands. They too are very bloody, and there is very little skin on any of my knuckles.
I decide some pills may be in order, what with my I-am-Godzilla-you-are-Japan headache and everything. I place my feet on my bedroom floor and stand up. Except I don’t, because for some reason my right leg doesn’t work and immediately buckles under me. I can’t bend it or put any weight on it.
I get up off the floor. There is considerable bruising to my left ribs.
I hop to the bathroom, and look in the mirror. Not entirely unexpectedly, my face is covered in blood. I wash it. A large portion of my face does not like the feel of the water. I look in the mirror again.
One quarter of the right of my face is smashed to a pulp. It is not recognisably human. I may or may not have two eyes. It is impossible to say.
This is quite a puzzle.
Being barely twenty years old, I decide the best course of action is to go back to The Pub and have a stiff drink.
Pub Landlord: What the fuck happened to you?
Me: I was rather hoping you could shed some light on the situation.
No. He cannot. I had left early and unscathed the previous evening. Only two or three drinks apparently. I wasn’t noticeably drunk.
Drinking Friend arrives. Looks at me.
DF: What the fuck is this?
Me: [gesturing] This is my face.
I stay a little longer. Complete strangers admire my new face. I feel rather roguish.
Some days later.
I remember the man at the burger van I visited on my way home giving me a very strange look as I purchased my supper. I mustn’t have looked too good at that point. It is a completely isolated memory.
Some weeks later.
I remember passing a particularly unpleasant night-club on my way home.
Bouncer: Alright are you?
Me: [Aggressive] What’s it to you?
Bouncer: Well. It’s just, you’ve got blood pouring out of your head.
Me:[checking] Oh. So I have. Thanks for that.
Again, an entirely isolated memory.
It is now.
My only souvenirs are a small scar above my right eyebrow and a small area of roughly-textured flesh on my right cheekbone. You wouldn’t even notice unless you were specifically looking.
And I’ve still no idea what the hell happened.