He cussed into the empty room as black spots swarmed his vision and his stomach lurched. Where was he, anyway?Ī wave of panic washed over him, leaving him wide-eyed and breathing heavily, and as Nick tried to scramble up to a decent standing position, he proceeded to slam his head into the oak side table, who’s drawer had conveniently been left open. He, slowly, to make sure he didn't startle himself, or something, rose a hand and pressed it against his pounding head, squinting his eyes. His head was spinning and nausea was pooling in his stomach. The bright white ceiling glared down at him-a ceiling shouldn’t be that bright. His hand wrapped around a soft, light object that was strewn across the room: a river of nearly blinding red fabric, hurting his eyes. Hair fanned out around him, a brown mat resting on the carpeted floor like a crown. The second thing? The conditions he was in. He didn’t know what that meant, or how it was possible, or even why he would be alone, but he knew it he didn't know how, but he knew it, deep down: he was alone. The first thought was a mix of that and a quick memory of school, that he would be late if he didn’t get up soon before that was gone and all he was left with were the thoughts of violence and hangovers. Had he been in a fight? Gotten knockout drunk? Someone hit him over the head and left him there to die? The world was spinning around him. First, the world slowly came into vision, a drab ceiling lazily swimming into his view.
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