Awakening

The sound of the low buzzing light awakened him. Though the light was irregularly dim, it danced painfully on his squinting eyes. His head was pounding, erupting in sharp pains. He sat up, his hands pushing through the cool, damp moistness of the floor. His vision blurred as he tried to remember where he was. But he recognized nothing. The dim light, if it could be called that, was about twenty feet in front of him barely displaying an industrial size sink covered in an opaque film of what appeared to be mildew and tangible disease. There was a biting surge of pain from his left eye. Though he was no stranger to the persistence of migraines, he was far away from his therapist Dr. Jack Daniels and his "prescription" percocets. He began rubbing his head trying to massage out the intense pain. It was useless, the pain only seemed to intensify and his tears seemed to be trying to work the problem out themselves. The hell with it, he figured as he slowly struggled to his feet. He noticed that it was raining outside, which would explain why his clothes were soaking wet.
"What have you gotten yourself into Frank?", he asked himself.
"Shit" he mumbled realizing the floor was colder than he expected, mainly because he didn't realize the absence of his shoes and socks.
The only floors this cold that he could think of were hospital floors. But he knew this was no hospital. Nothing sanitary about this place. He rubbed his arms to dissapate the cold chills. He could feel the coarseness of his skin sending the chills throughout his body. Though he wasn't sure whether it was really because he was cold. He needed to get out of here.
He began towards the only source of light he could see in the room. His weakened state caused him to bump into a large table along the way. His hands felt the cold and simple steel. Stainless. His heart began to quicken in pace. He needed to get out of here now! The twenty feet began to look more like twenty yards. He pushed himself forward towards the sink.
"Just five more steps and . . . " before he could finish he steps on what must have been a large insect of some sort.
"What kind of disgusting shit was that?" he whispered to himself as he continued forward.
Finally he made it to the sink. It was even more putrid up close than it was from what now seemed like the luxury of the other side of the room. The sink sat airbrushed with the sinister motifs of blood and death. Maggots slink their way along the bottom and throughout the drainage. The knot in his stomach begins to form and move toward his throat. He covers his mouth fighting the urge to vomite. His eyes close as he takes deep inhalations to calm his now erratic breathing. His head throbbed with intense pain and agony and he could somehow still taste the blood in the sink as he lunged forward releasing his inevitable anxieties. His anxieties flowed throughout the blood speckled sink washing a few of the slithering maggots down the festering drain. He stood to wipe his face and mouth with his hands. He froze, his hands were covered in blood. Did I just throw all this blood up?
He frantically checked his hands. Nothing, no cuts. Maybe there was a cut on his face, might explain the searing headache.
He noticed a small mirror on the wall above the sink. The layers of dirt and filth would only explain how he missed it the first time. Not caring to touch the knobs on the sink he spits on the mirror, wiping the filth away with the sleeve of his shirt.
The air escapes his lungs at the grotesque sight in the mirror. No longer does the pain of his head throb. But his left eye, an empty socket, filled with only pus and blood spewing forth like tears onto his face. His face now somber and pale. His lips shiver as he begin to sob profusely inside. His heart feels to have slowed to a staggering halt, and now felt at least fifty-pounds heavier. He looked slowly back into the mirror and asked
"Why me?"
The figure staring at him in the mirror behind him offered no answer, no sympathy only quiet disdain.
Frank remembered his childhood, his father's abusive words; the beatings and severe punishments. He remembered that he had only been in love love once in eleventh grade with Sarah Dawls. He remembered his best friend Mike, whom he hadn't spoken to in years. He remembered laughing and talking with him. He remembered a lot as night closed in and his throat released his life confessing onto his blood drenched dress shirt. He could feel the cut no longer, but he could feel the blood like a river of life flowing from his dying body. And that it was, dying. He turned to face the darkness, the air was empty, though he was not sure he was still breathing. His body slouched till he sat on the floor staring at his feet. There between his toes staring back at him, mangled and ruptured, one of the beautiful brown eyes he had gotten from his mother.