Call yourself.

You figure it is the only way to see if you can find out what is going on. You pick up the little nearly clear red purse and take out the cell phone. The odd thing is as you scroll through the address book you start to see a flash in your mind of the faces behind the numbers. A bit wierded out by this you stop and dial your phone number. Sadly it goes instantly to voicemail. You hear your voice ask yourself to leave a message. Now what? You could go home, then you realize you don’t even know where you are. Looking around you spot a newspaper and see you are still in your home town. That’s something at least.

“Are You ok Alexis?”

“I don’t think so, is there any way I could take off I am feeling sick.”

“Don’t ask me, you will have to ask Bill, and he will probably fire your butt if you do. You know us girls all love you here but you are stoned all the time and we can’t keep covering for you. But if you are really sick you won’t make any money anyway so I will send him in here and cover for you but you owe me.”

“I am sorry Brittney, thanks.” You grab the purse and put on some street clothes. You find a pair of painted on tight black jeans, a black belly shirt, and a pair of 5 1/2” platform heel sandals, and grab the keys and walk out. As you exit the building it hits you. ‘How did I know her name was Brittney?’