Painful

When my eyes snapped open to the sounds of singing birds, I found myself, lying face-up on the living room sofa. Once I realized I had not made it to bed after all, I reached up and pushed hair from my eyes. The devastating pain coming to mind must’ve been so forceful I couldn’t recall making it to the sofa either. As I sat upright, I found the phone’s handset out of its cradle and wrapped in bloody handprints. I extended an arm towards the handset and picked up the handset, wondering if I had made any calls to dad. The dried blood on my hands caused me to look down at myself. “Dear God,” I moaned, “what’s happening to me?”

To my disbelief, my shirt was caked in dry blood, my jeans had reminisce of red, and so did the floor between my bare feet. I replaced the handset, leaned over and dropped my head into my hands. “Where are my shoes?” I whispered, peering through my fingers at the blood-splattered droplets on the floor and my feet. My head jerk up at a thought and I found the front door wide open to the rising sun, and my jacket tossed in the seat of the leather chair, in a puddle of blood. In doubt of what I was looking at, I stood up on unsteady legs, so unsteady I dropped like a rock back to the sofa. Determined, I got up again and stumbled to the front door. Once it was closed and locked, I picked up my blood-stained jacket on my way to the bathroom.

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