Stream of Unconsciousness

This is the story of that time I found myself, blacked out on an old tile floor, and didn't know where or when I was at. The room I was in wasn't anything special, anything really indicative of where, exactly, I was at. It was a kitchen, with old metal appliances, a rusty sink, and half a dozen locked doors, except for one that led to the bathroom. That one wasn't there at all. I tried to find the person that put me here, the kidnapper somehow courteous enough to leave the toilet open for business, but not enough so to give me food, or a glass to fill with the water from the faucet. I ran the water and cupped my hands, hopelessly splashing water in my face and praying that some of it would eventually get down my throat, barely getting a glass' worth of water in a minute and a half or so. Not that I actually knew how fast the time was going; it could have been three hours or fifteen seconds. My hands were cold, since there was a freezing draft in the air, like a freezer was left open somewhere, and I dried them off on my shirt. There was a scary amount of blood on my shirt, like someone turned the handle on my face like it were a faucet and the stuff just started gushing out. I wiped my face and found another puddle's worth of dried blood. Huh. That solved about none of the mystery of why I was here, and raised a few more questions. The first one I thought of was 'do I have a hangover?', and it was the last one I answered. The headache could have easily been explained by being cracked upside the face with a bat, or something. I walked over to the bathroom, and noticed that there was actually a glass, a tall one that would have given me twice the water I got from my hands.

The End

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