Here's a bit of what I'm currently working on, and it's actually holding my attention. It has no title yet. I'll decide it later, maybe.
What the hell is going on here, I wonder? Why can't I see anything? Why is everything made of agony? These are some of the more filtered thoughts running through my head as I begin to come around.
I attempt to roll over, and this proves to be the worst idea I've had since.... well, whatever the hell it was that got into my head that got me into this situation to begin with. The pain was unimaginable. It resembled something that would normally be reserved for only the harshest descriptions of Hell the place, not the expression.
It's around this time that I decide that I'm just about done with this blindness. With much force of will - and I assure you, noble readers, there was much of it despite my horrid state - I managed to open my eyes.
The world slowly came into focus. The process was expedited thanks to me somehow managed to coerce my leaden arms into functioning just enough to rub the nights eye mucus from my face. A glance at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand, finding that it's far beyond the night before. In fact, it's closer to the very next night.
With a loud groan that could shake the dead, I manage to sit myself up straight. This causes a lance of pain from behind my eyes as if someone shoved a red-hot poker through my frontal cortex. My eyes close, and the dreaded blackness returns, along with the Fear. My forehead falls to my hands, and the agony resumes.
Holy shit, what did I do? Further, when did I get an electric alarm clock? This thought disturbs me into actually looking around at my surroundings, which honestly hadn't before held any kind of import into me. What I see evokes only one thought:
I must be in Hell.
The room I'm in, which I can only assume was of the cheap motel variety that was popular for travelers, adulterers, swindlers, drug dealers, prostitutes, drug addicts and so on back in the 20th century, and really haven't changed much since then. I find stains and odd mold on the carpet, and the furniture is all rotten. The smell in the air is that of fungus dead twice over, with newer, more superior and therefore more smelly fungus to take over.
I look up, my sense of clarity getting sharper with each passing minute as the pain behind my eyes dulled to a small yet persistant throb, at the window. There are Venetian blinds - who the hell still uses those? - covering the window. I sigh, wondering just what backwoods town I've managed to land myself in this time.
Gritting my teeth, I stand up, feeling the white hot pain shooting throughout my body. Every motion seemed to bring more and more pain, and of course, the Fear as well. After standing still for a few moments, I blink a few times and wait for the world to stop spinning. When it finally does, I open the door and step outside.
The sights awaiting my eye orbs was not what I was expecting at all. Rather than the familiar hustle and bustle of city life that I am so accustomed to, I find myself standing on the second floor of a seedy motel, staring out at what can only be described as scorched earth. The ground was hard soil, sun-baked to cracked perfection. The office of the motel was, like the rest of the structure, in dire need of some general repairs and a new coat of paint.
Sighing, I close the door behind me, not even caring whether or not it's locked. It's time to get some goddamn answers. I walk down the steps, each one creaking its protest as I put my weight on it, the wooden planks looking just as bad as the furniture inside of the small room.
I head over to the office, my eyes now darting around, taking in my surroundings. Really, there wasn't much else to see beyond the various cacti in the desert and a few of those ever-living shrubs that are sold to unsuspecting consumers, even to this day. Shaking my head, I walk into the main office.
Behind the counter sits a fat man wearing thick glasses, reading a dirty magazine. His long, black greasy hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which does absolutely nothing for the widow's peak on his head that seems to have gained far more territory than what most men are comfortable with. He is wearing a white tank top - also known as a "wife beater" due to it being the choice garment of blue-collar workers who like to drink a whole lot of alcohol and then beat their spouses - and it seems to not exactly be a clean garment, judging by the foul-looking green blotch of a stain that can be seen on it. A long, thick cigar hangs from his mouth, permeating the atmosphere with pleasant-smelling carcinogens.
All in all, this guy was a total Neanderthal.
I clear my throat to get his attention. "Excuse me."
He looks up at me from his book, raising a thick bushy eyebrow as a form of query. "Whaddya want?"
What a question that was! I wasn't prepared to be questioned; rather, I was fully prepared to do the questioning. As a result, I wasn't exactly on guard in my reply. "Well... I was wondering.... that is...."
"Come on, wanker! I ain't got all day! Tryin' to run a business here!" the motel worker said, not even bothering to hide his magazine, and blatantly ignoring the wall clock that was in desperate need of a battery change, differing by a good three or four hours from the digital clock in the room, and sitting still, silent, and very dead.
"I came from room 204... I don't remember ever even checking into this place. Truth be told, I'm not even entirely sure where 'here' is. What can you tell me?"
"Room 204? Hell, kid, I thought you left days ago!"
I blinked at him, perplexed. "Days?"
"Yeah... you came here about four or five days ago, all hopped up on..... something."
Well, as much as I wanted to argue with the guy, I knew that I simply couldn't, as this isn't exactly out of the ordinary for me. That certainly explains the condition I woke up in! "You wouldn't happen to know if I mentioned anything about where I came from, do you?"
He grinned at me then, placing his magazine down. "Boy, you didn't need to say word one. You came in from the City."
"The City?"
"Wow. You must have been really whacked out, kid. Here, let ol' Gus show you." And with that, he places his meatpaws on his desk and used them to support himself a bit as he lifted his bulk up out of the cheap office chair - also stained - and walked around to my side of the counter. He pulls on some sun glasses and heads to the front door. "This way."
I follow him outside and walk to the road. He turns off to the left - not being entirely sure where I am at this point, I couldn't tell you what the cardinal direction was - and I follow his fat, sausage-like finger. Down the straight, two-lane narrow asphalt road, I see large structures in the distance. The unmistakable sign of civilization! I'm saved!
"About how far off is that place?"
Gus furrowed his brows, quite obviously trying to think harder than he probably has in years. At last, the answer comes. "About ten miles, give or take."
Damn. Too far to walk. I sigh, shoving my hands in my pockets. I quirk up a bit as I feel something in my pocket. Several somethings, actually. I pull my hands out and take look. There is a half-full package of cigarettes, a matchbook, two vials - one with white powder, and one with a greenish-blue thick liquid - a cell phone, a set of keys with a FOB attached, and a folded up piece of paper. I thank Gus for his help, getting a grunt as a reply, and head back to room 204 to further examine the items in my possession.
Entering the ramshackle room, I close and lock the door, trying my best to ignore the fact that this lock seems about as useful as nipples on a medieval breastplate. I sit down on the bed, Indian style, and pore over the contents of my pockets.
The phone is I mess with first. As luck would have it, it's completely dead. A quick scan of the room shows that there is no charger for it anywhere. Why would there be? If I really just spent the past four or five days or longer in a haze of drugs and debauchery again, it would only make sense that I would lose things of import like this. Now if only I could figure out how the hell I got this thing to begin with.
The next item on my list to examine is the folded paper. The keys couldn't possibly belong to me, as I don't own a car. I'll have to find their proper owner, or toss them into the desert somewhere, hopefully to be swallowed by an iguana monster. The vials could wait, as I had a good feeling what was in those.
The paper is folded into the shape of a shuriken. This is odd, as I lack the manual dexterity required for such artwork. Further, there is hand-writing on it, and what's more is that it's legible! Cleary, this can't be mine!
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