What I Can’t Remember
Terror. Disgust.
I really don’t know.
It’s kind of a toss-up when you wake up covered in blood.
It’s not my blood either. It’s somebody else’s.
But I only know that because I don’t have any cuts. I can’t remember last night at all. Or how I got here. Or where here is.
According to the notepad on the nightstand, it’s the Moyers Hotel. So, I’m downtown. Still no idea how I get here.
My phone’s on the floor, the screen shattered. It wasn’t like that last night. Before I pick it up, I rinse the blood off my hands. I wash my face off while I’m at it. When I zip my jacket up, you can’t see the massive blood stain on my shirt. I’m good as new.
Disgust levels down, I check my phone. I’ve got a million notifications, each text more frightening than the last.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Are you alive?
I ignore them all and check my card charges. The last one was at a bar a few blocks from here. I take everything I know is mine from the room and head to the bar.
When I get there, there’s already a crowd. Police tape up. Flashing lights. Cops everywhere. The whole shebang.
“What happened?” I ask nobody in particular.
“Somebody shot up the place last night.”
A cop catches my eye. He squints, tilting his head to the side. Then, “I’ve got a visual on the suspect!”
Somebody didn’t shoot up this place. I did.
And I don’t remember a thing.
“Hold it right there!”
I don’t. I turn and run as fast as I can.
And I know now.
Terror. It’s definitely terror.
