You wake up from another one of your drunken adventures.
Not surprisingly, you dozed off on a floor and remained there. As your eyes adjust to what little light there is, you spot a squashed pack of Marlboro Reds only a few inches away from your face. Your clothes feel moist, and your right cheekbone feels like it's made of rubber. No wonder. You've been sleeping on it for the last God knows how long.
Getting up to your feet, you notice that you're not in the middle of the street, near your home, or any place you recognize. You are surrounded by the walls of a house. The walls are not painted and there is no furniture to be spotted or any sort of decorations. Must be that it's not done, you assume.
You advance, pressing through empty rooms with no windows or doors. The occasional floorboards squeaking under your feet is about as much sound as you can hear right about now. In your current state of mind, you begin wondering where everybody is. You begin wondering where you are. Recollecting a Saturday is something your mind usually can't do, but you have perfect recollection of last night. For the most part. You and Marquise, a friend you met nine months ago after moving schools went out to get shitfaced and to hopefully get lucky.
Drip.
Drip.
You got in his Ford Focus and drove to the Pearl; a local night club known for being the home of Lavine's best sluts and generally a good place to go to break the law. The night, of course, doesn't start until you down a fifth of vodka and shotgun two beers. In your drunken state, you stumbled upon a beautiful blonde whose name you can't remember. She offered to make your night more special than any other, and you agreed. She lead you to the back alley, almost having to carry you at one point. You still don't even know why she even bothered with you.
Drip.
Drip.
You walked behind a green dumpster, where you were expecting to receive oral sex at the least. To your surprise, nothing intimate took place. She asked you one last time if you are ready for the change. You agreed for the final time, after which point you were given a capsule. Thinking it was ecstasy, you took it. You remember nothing after that.
Your clothes have just recently dried up, yet the dripping is gradually turning into rain. Weren't you in a house? You look up, noticing the ceiling, or the lack of it. At that point, your neck begins hurting as if someone put pressure on it on all sides. You bow your head, as that's the only thing that helps to void the pain.
You move on for another fifteen minutes or so, at which point you begin wondering where the exit is. Where are the windows? Every room is identical. Absolutely identical.
That pain, that pressure is moving downwards, expanding onto your spine and forcing you to walk in a hunched-over manner. You scan the brick walls surrounding you, looking for a way out. You get closer, feeling the walls. You hear someone breathing. Not you, but someone else. It sounds like they're trying to synchronize with your breathing to remain undetected, but it's off by a tiny bit. You yell, trying to communicate with someone. Trying to get out of there.
There is no sound. The constant, near silent squeaking floorboard is about as much sound as you can hear right about now, yet you're not moving. You're staring at the wall. You look down at the floor, noticing how much rubbish is on it. It looks like a place where drug addicts would go to get their fix and sleep the next three hours on a bug ridden mattress. Oh, how great that would be. How great it would be for a junkie to walk in through a door right now; a door which lets you get out.
The pain has expanded throughout your spine. You are no longer walking. No, you're crouching. You don't know how long you have been walking, and you have no idea how long it has been since you saw the light of day. You try your best to block out the heavy breathing that no longer tries to synchronize with yours. You try your best to not think about the lack of exits. You try your best to not think about the lack of logic in this situation.
Your entire body is taken over by that pressure-like pain. You crawl on your two arms, barely holding your tears back.
Just a few minutes of rest.
You lay down on the floor, obeying the voice which is not yours. You listen to the floorboards squeak under feet that aren't yours. You hear the breathing which does not belong to you. Your clothes are moist and feel heavy, even if you wanted to press on, you couldn't. You let your cheekbone rest on the floor, your eyes fixated on a squashed box of Marlboro Reds.
You wake up from another one of your drunken adventures.