Memories slam through me.
“He’s hit you?” Ellis asks me as we sit outside, beside the hotel building, with darkness blanketing us.
I nod as I sniffle. “And that’s not even the worst thing he’s done…”
As my stomach lurches and vomit burns in my throat, I stumble to my feet. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The door is cracked, so I can easily get back into the room. I barrel into the bathroom, slam the door shut, and drop to my knees. Then I spend the next five minutes puking and dry heaving, something that’s become more constant in my life than even my lies.
But are those a constant anymore after telling Ellis my secrets?
“Oh god,” I groan, resting my head on the toilet seat.
It’s disgusting for sure, but my issues of plunging toward rock bottom are more concerning. When I do conclusively slam against the bottom of this seemingly endless fall, will I shatter or survive? If it’s the latter, will I ever be able to climb back up?
2
CLOVER
The ceiling is spinning, round and round and round, casting shadows across the room. So many shadows. So much spinning…
I feel like I’m about to fly away.
Or fade away.
It might be better if I did.
I blink, my vision coming back into focus, and realize the room isn’t spinning; the ceiling fan above me is. Light is trickling through a vent in the upper section of the wall, the air reeks of dust and something rotting, and feels heavy and dirty.
I feel dirty.
Gross.
Like my body doesn’t belong to me anymore.
Like my veins are filled with dirt.
I’m so confused.
“Where the hell am I?” I croak, only half the syllables leaving my dry lips.
I’ve been in this position before, where I woke up from a night with my dark thoughts and a pillow of drugs and can’t remember what the fuck happened. However, I can usually backtrack to the first snort or injection. Right now, my brain is asvacant as this room that consists of nothing but walls, a fan, and a concrete floor, which I’m lying on.
My bones and muscles gripe in protest as I roll over to push up, but putting any sort of pressure on my arms is useless, and I buckle to the floor. I’m on my stomach now, and the concrete is cold against my overly warm cheek. My skin is burning up, and my stomach is clenching. A puddle of puke is on the floor a few feet away from me. I believe it is the culprit of the pungent smell.
I let out another moan. How the hell am I supposed to get out of here? Where is here even? And how did I get here?
Did I get so high that I stumbled into some random person’s basement and passed out? This doesn’t feel like a basement, though, not with sunlight coming through the vent.
I need to get out of here.
I muster a few breaths, then will my arms to work as I wiggle them underneath me and push up. I manage to sit upright and have started working on getting my feet underneath me when the door to the room swings open.
The severity of my situation crashes into me before whoever it is even walks in. Because whatever this is, if it is something bad, my limbs are way too heavy, and my mind is too thick with cotton for me to be able to protect myself.
When I see the person entering, my mind floats between puzzlement and worry.
“Jason,” I croak at the sight of the guy I’m dating.
