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.