Dawson was up before he knew it, eyes blurry, and his neck cursing him for sleeping wrong…again.
The sun was piercing through the shade, giving the room a thin piece of light. Dawson rubbed his neck vigorously as he rose to his feet, making his way to the bathroom amongst piles of dirty clothes, school textbooks, and a bong that wasn’t even his. He had no idea who it belonged to.
In the bathroom, light flipped on, he whistled as he took stock of the scene that was laid out before him. The bathroom very much needed a cleaning. There was toothpaste all over the sink, a lightly-colored blue, even on the faucet. More clothes were dumped on the floor. There was a sickening smell, like old piss, hovering in the air. Dawson then spotted the catalyst; someone had missed the toilet altogether.
The shower, fortunately, was the only survivor of the traumatic slaughter. Dawson twisted the old dial, unleashing a powerful wave of water in the form of pellets, splashing against the bottom of the tub with a loud, cracking noise. Dawson stripped down, and got in. Upon entering, the heated water immediately soothed his aching neck, allowing Dawson the luxury of shutting his eyes and relaxing; so he took a deep sigh.
Viewing his chest, he noticed a small, reddened scar running from his pectoral to his abdomen. It stuck out on his pale skin, like a large yet insignificant fly on a wall as white as a sheet of line-less paper.
(How did that get there?) Dawson couldn’t help but wonder.
Then again, there were a lot of things that he wished he could remember from last night. He decided shower time was over, and with a twist, turned off the water. He cracked his neck, just before stepping out of the shower.
He made it halfway when it struck. The pain was so vibrant, so alive and angry. It startled Dawson, causing him to almost fall over; had it not been for the towel rack nearby that Dawson grasped, he would’ve fallen and hit his head.
Not that it mattered. His head was being tortured by some unknown thing, like it had been for so many years. The pain, white-hot, un-relenting, froze Dawson in his place, and he half-crouched, naked, still clutching the rack. He felt like he couldn’t breathe; it hurt to inhale, and it only added on to the migraine.
Groaning, he finally dropped on all fours, gasping, trying to reduce his heartbeat, and control his breathing. (Mom would’ve said to do so if she were here.) he thought.
The migraine hit him harder, and he winced, squeezing his eyes shut tight. And in that moment, everything went cold. The air froze to a bitter chill, and the droplets of water still tracing down Dawson’s naked body stung as they made their way down. He gritted his teeth. “God,” he muttered. “God. Ah!”
Suddenly, the pain became even more intense; and then it was gone. Just like that. The migraine ceased, like it always had before. But the frozen air remained. Dawson cursed, and opened his eyes.
The room was gone. The door was burst open, hanging on one good hinge, while the door swung lazily back and forth. The door knob was missing. Dawson stood up, alarmed.
Charging into the other room revealed a similar situation. The room was destroyed. There were no beds, and there were no clothes. Instead, there were two small fires; one, a tire, burning as it dangled from a rope, swinging in sync with the bathroom door. Smoke was rising from a small bin, where the second fire was. The fumes were thick in the room, which held no trace of the white-painted walls that had been there moments ago.
The texture of the floor underfoot was smooth and cold. Glancing down, Dawson noticed that it was all concrete. Bringing up his view only caused him to jump when he found himself not two yards away from another visitor.
A small, scraggly thing. Its head was shaped like a heart made of putty that a child had ripped up, and put back together. It’s entire skin, whiter than almost anything Dawson had seen in his life. The skin was saturated with a transparent ooze or secretion.
Dawson found its eyes absolutely terrifying. Bright orange, filled with either remorse or anger, Dawson couldn’t tell.
And before he could even fathom what he was really seeing, it raised its hand, spreading its five thin fingers wide, and hissed. Dawson felt himself suddenly flying, and something he could not see in the air spiked him, right through the forehead. He cried out, the pain far worse than the previous migraine had been.
He was flying backwards, back into the bathroom. Dawson crashed against the tub, hitting the back of his head hard. And then it was all black.
