Wake

                                                                              WAKE

     



      The room swirls painfully, horribly into view.  There is no memory of falling asleep, no dreams, no idea what was happening before this “sleep” I now pull myself out of. It takes more strength than seems should be adequate to open my eyes, to focus them a godlike feat of willpower. Abruptly it becomes obvious that this room is not my own, never have I laid in this bed, nor woke in it.

      As I think about what made me realize that this room is not my own, things like the row of tacky mirrors with gold flecking along the sliding closet door, the phone with the red light atop it, a television mounted to the wall and the remote bolted to the nightstand, I realize that I cannot recall what My room looks like. It is obvious that I am in a hotel; however I have no idea where I live. This leads me to the next logical thought one in my situation presumably would have… who the hell am I? This is an awful question to not have an answer to. Panic sets in. I notice a rich coppery taste in the back of my throat. Blood. The fact that I have no idea who I am or where I live becomes a secondary stressor to the details that start to stand out from the scene in this seemingly innocuous however seedy hotel room.

      There is an abundance of warm sticky wetness surrounding my head and shoulders. Blood. It has pooled in coagulating puddles and dried in a crispy mask that pulls painfully at the fine thin hairs around my eyes as I wince at the searing light pouring in through a crack in the curtains.  In my hand is a heckler & Koch MK23. I know this weapon to be mine. It is a .45 caliber, a fact that brings me a sinister kind of comfort. On closer inspection the barrel is still a bit warm. It has recently been fired. Instinctively I return it to its home in a holster on my left side under my coat on my ribs. It feels natural, like part of my body. There is a Rorschach of blood, brains and bits of skull on the wall nearest to me. I immediately think of breasts, big voluminous breasts, this seems odd to me as it is obvious that the pattern of gore on the wall forms the likeness of Groucho Marx complete with grey matter mustache, sans cigar. This adds further confusion to my not knowing who I am. I can remember the Marx brothers yet draw a blank on my own identity.  There is a trail of gore leading from Groucho’s benevolent stare directly to my face, which I pull disgustedly out of a warm puddle of blood; in which lies a phone book that my hamster has chewed a hole through. No, I don’t think I have a hamster, though I do have a large bore pistol that would make a hole like this. From the immediate details it appears as though I have shot myself in the head and used a phone book to keep the round from exiting this room and striking an innocent poolside sunbather. This would also explain my migraine. As I rise I scoot myself slowly up resting my back on the wall where a headboard would be. The change in elevation sets my head to spinning and throbbing briefly. However it is less painful and disorienting than it was upon waking and only lasts a second or two. From this height I can see more of the room and it sets me to full alert.