The Hangover

When I woke, I had the headache to end all headaches. I was also a bit stiff from, apparently, sleeping on the floor. I was also a little bit cold, pretty hungry and thirsty, and frustratingly thirsty, remembering only then that I hadn't gotten any blood from David the previous day and, though my aching head hated the act of thinking, I realized just how quickly I'd become dependent on the blood. So, I summoned what will I had left and resolved to do two things: not attack the first person I met in order to suck their blood and to figure out where the Hell I was.

I was inside, that was obvious by the feel of the linoleum floor beneath me, and probably not alone, based on the sound of a woman crying softly, somewhere to my left. There was no light whatsoever, so I figured it must be a basement or other interior room.

Not quite steady enough to stand yet, I rose to my hands and knees and crawled forward until I hit the wall. Then, I followed it to the right and found the corner, where I rose to my somewhat unsteady feet.

Keeping my hands on the wall, I paced across the room. It was four and a half steps to the next corner, where I turned and walked another seven steps to the third corner. Turning right again, I walked the four and a half steps and found the first wall again. As I walked along it, I found the frame to a well sealed door that didn't even have a knob on the inside.

Sometime during my slow perimeter walk, the crying had stopped, which is why it took me by surprise when I ran into the soft flesh of another person, tripped, and fell flat on the floor in a graceless tumble that, luckily, nobody could see.

"Por favor, eu quero ir para casa," the voice whimpered.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to trip over you," I said, stating the obvious.

"Você é um americano? Não estamos na América, estamos?"

"Uh, America, no. We're in Mexico, I think," I said, hoping that I guessed the meaning of her words correctly.

"México? Estou no México? Por que estou aqui? Por que eles me levaram? Você está trabalhando com os homens que me levaram?" she spewed out in a staccato.

"Uh, sorry, but I don't speak very much Spanish," I said as I returned to searching the room.

As I did so, I noticed that the walls had the same linoleum as the floor, which was odd and, when combined with the drain I found in the center of the room, a rather ominous omen as to the room's providence.

"Eu quero ir para casa. Papai, eu quero ir para casa," the woman said, hopefully not to me, as I couldn't understand what she was saying.

Still, I sat down next to her, hoping that the proximity might provide a little comfort to her, and to myself, if I'm being honest.

It must have been an hour or two before there was a sound at the door. A moment later, a small slot slid open on the door and way too bright light shown in, momentarily blinding me.

"American, come. Put hands out."