The Interpretator, Part Three

I was right.
And the corner's angle was not. Oh no, especially not after I pried it open. If it hadn't been postmodern to begin with, it was now. Or it was just a ruined sloppy drywall and detritus job. More like a rat's nest, really.
That, I suppose, was appropriate; pack rats should live up to their names, after all. Me and Confucius agree about that. "If names are not rectified, then language will not be in accord with truth." And all that follows from that. Especially things being hard to accomplish, and the unjust punishment bit. Yeah, he was a smart old guy.
Enough speculation. The hell with those dead old ideas. There was a hat to be concerned about -
and it was well worth being concerned about. Mostly in that I expected it to fall on me, and crush my ribs. The thing was damn enormous.

Not too heavy, though. Actually, not much heavier than a heap of feathers and poorly-sewn quilts, which it seemed to be composed of. I was surprised it could stay upright. It was as tall as a fancy wedding cake. The kind parents of spoiled brats dread. The kind their spoiled little daughter will demand, to dwarf those of all weddings she's seen before.

Yeah. It was a big hat.
But not dangerous. Except for being magnificently, proudly ugly.

Just to be sure, I tried to wear it.

Well, I couldn't really stand up in here, not with the hat on. No mirror anyway. How could I tell if it was dangerous, if I couldn't see how bad it made me look? My reputation, what there was of it, wouldn't be helped, I was sure. I brushed the broken plaster dust off, then moved to turn -

and found myself examining the ceiling again. Except my face hurt. And so did my ribs. My ears rang, too, as though to give me a message. I didn't appreciate their help.

Had they come home and thought I was an intruder?
The lights were still off. I eased my eyes around the room...the left was a bit sore with me, I guess, and wouldn't open up more than halfway. Still, though, there wasn't anything there.

Except a dent in the wall. More than a dent. A sideways sinkhole. And all that moved were a few crumblings of plaster and paint flakes from it.

No, there wasn't anyone there but me.

A dark form caught my eye. A crumpled heap on the floor! Did they -

Oh, hat. Right. Just a hat.

I eased my way up, like an illegal at McDonald's, trying for management. I wanted for something to comfort my nerves; whisky, namely. I had none.

Going from the floor up felt like trying to earn time off. It was slow. No paycheck, either.

My time off the floor, once earned, involved more aching and throbbing than I'd planned. I hobbled first to the wall. Damn. That hole was about my size. No way could I fix that tonight. I could barely stand...my legs hadn't wanted to complain before, I guess, when I hadn't been asking anything of them.
So I hopped and span until I faced the closet. A bit of the doorframe was missing. I found it right away, though: that was in my hand.

Alright.

Good a place as any. Misery loves company and all. What the hell, though? Like I held it while I was being shoved.

The only other thing that'd changed in the room, was that the hat was on the floor.