Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25333848-20140825231639/@comment-25333848-20140825232616

Project Sofiya Part I: A Rude Awakening

It was the siren made me bolt up and out of my dead, dreamless slumber, and it was the splitting headache that made me fall back in agony--back into my lying position on the cold, red cement floor. Wait. Red? I placed my left palm into the ground and slowly lifted myself back up. My head felt about two sizes too small, and I felt as though I were going to vomit. A concussion, perhaps? Wait... red cement... right.

The overhead lights were not functioning. Some were broken, and others were simply off or un-powered, but all were replaced by their caged red brothers, which were supposed to activate during an emergency. Something was seriously wrong. "Hello?" I called out as loud as my tired, raspy throat could muster. How loud, I was still too out-of-it to be certain, but it felt about as loud as the chain-saw I was hoping would tear through my skull at any moment, and kill this migraine.

No response. I reached up to wipe my tired eyes, only to yowl and recoil in pain. "What the..." I gingerly stroked the right side of my forehead, wincing and grunting softly as I felt the large gash. Moving my hand back into my field of vision, I noticed the blood on my fingers. Mostly dry. Not a lot, but a respectable amount. I'd need some stitches, but I was in no danger of bleeding out. "How did that get there?" I thought, scanning my memories for any applicable information.

"I think I was making breakfast in my apartment. An English muffin and a couple fried eggs." I recall I used to make big breakfasts. I stopped after... I sighed and put that thought out of my head. "Then I drove to work, signed in with Keith, and..." and that was it. Hoisted myself up to my feet, nearly falling over in the process, and looked around. The hallway was in a state of absolute disarray. Pipes and wires were hanging from the ceiling, belching steam and sparks respectively, and papers and medical supplies were strewn across the floor. And then there were the bullet casings.

I walked over to the small pieces of brass, leaning on the wall for balance, and carefully knelt down, grabbing a handful and examining them. The stamps on the bottom read "LC 5.56mm" and "FCC 9x19mm". Standard issue military ammunition. There was some sort of fight. Against who, I couldn't be sure, but the trail of casings led behind me, towards... a pile of rubble from a few large, collapsed segments of ceiling. Typical. No way through. I couldn't help but notice the lack of blood, aside from the small pool in which I awoke. The guards were all well-trained veterans. All these shells, and not a single hit? It made no sense. The brass clattered on the floor as I pulled myself back up and awkwardly walked towards the overturned crash-cart before me. It was on it's side, surrounded by random bottles of pills and broken syringes. I was tempted to thank god as I reached for the bottle I recognized as ibuprofen and popped it open, downing a couple. I replaced the cap and stuffed the rattling bottle in the pocket of my white lab-coat and sat down, leaning back and closing my eyes. I couldn't move another inch. Not with the pounding in my head. And so I waited.

Was I waiting for more memories to shake themselves loose from my battered, bruised, and lacerated skull? Was I waiting for my team to come out and expose their elaborate practical joke? Or was I just waiting for the pills to take effect? It was a full 20 minutes before I got my answer, and was finally able to move without my stomach turning. I slowly rose to my feet and eyed the staff bathroom across from me. "I could use a drink." I muttered to myself. And my bladder wasn't exactly empty, either.

The same red glow that filled the hallway was also in effect in the bathroom, but atleast the siren quieted to a dull-roar as heavy door closed automatically behind me. I walked over to the sink and turned the tap, letting my hands fill to the brim before I brought them to my lips, gulping it down. I hadn't noticed how thirsty I was until I finished my first drink and began filling another. "How long have I been out?" The stream of water slowed to a trickle, and then to a drip. The water was off. I sighed and drank what was left in my hands, before shaking them off and wiping them on my coat. I approached the urinal, unbuttoned my jacket, and unzipped my fly. "Ahhhh..." I sighed as I relieved myself.

When I finished, I walked over to the hand sanitizer dispenser and squirted a large gob in my hand. I scooped some up with two of my right hand fingers, and gently dabbed it on my wound. It stung like a bitch, but not as much as the head ache did, and not as much as a massive staph infection would. I rubbed the rest on my hands and turned to leave. But just then, I noticed the blood on the wall. Had my cut re-opened? I reached up to check my forehead. Dry. Drier than before, in fact. Alcohol does that. So where did it come from? I craned my head skyward and looked at the ceiling over the stalls. My heart dropped when I saw it. More blood. Much more blood. Dread filled my mind and adrenaline coursed through my veins as I slowly walked over to the middle stall and placed my hand on the door. I considered leaving. Pretending I didn't see it. Maybe I was confused. A concussion can do that. There was no blood.

But I needed answers. I took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. And there he was. Gun on the floor, back against the toilet tank, grey matter on the wall behind him.

-To Be Continued-