Clown in the dark

I'm clutching my head between my hands, the horrible headache denying me of thinking.

A sickening feeling shakes me as I vomit- again, according to the little puddle already there- to the ground.

My hands shiver as I look at them, trying to impose any order upon my renegade mind.

Starting to go through my memories from last night, I manage to recall ten minutes, after which, I can only remember the passing of time, without the included events.

I, Bill Parren, am retaking control of my mind- self control has always been an obsession of mine- to a point of self loathing on occasions.

The area is lighten by a soft orange glow from the street light. What happened?, i desperately interrogate my broken mind. I recall the bottle of vodka, and that three friends of mine were with me- the first, a bit round, average height, I called him fatso... fatso Rick! of course! he hated that nickname, which made it so much more fun to use.

The second, high, and thin, I called him- weird Al, Allan, that was the name!

The third wasn't a friend of mine, but he knew how to "score" the drinks. I decide his name isn't worth the headache of focusing.

Then, when recalling the drinking, I bitterly remember what an idiot I was: while exhausted after partying all night, partially dehydrated and starving, I drank half a liter of vodka- No wonder I had such a hangover!

While weakly mouthing curses, I tried to understand where did those three idiots went.

I will be the first to admit that I'm a cold, ruthless son of a bitch, I don't believe in being kind, or humane, to that matter,

but I never went far enough to justify abandoning me unconscious in my own vomit. Something was wrong.

I started, well, walking, passing a bench on my dizzy path, when my eyes finally managed to pass the scene to my head, I folded, trying to vomit again despite the obvious lack of content in my stomach.

Rick lied on the floor, his face almost impossible to recognize due to brutal hacking in the flesh, his red shirt, the one he only bought three days ago, was ruined, teared and tattered, the red color a lot darker.

next to him, faced down, staring at the red pavement, was Allan. His throat was slashed so violently that his head was only half connected to his neck.

the last one, George, maybe, was in a similar condition.

I looked around, terrified. Usually, when in distress, I'm the one who remains calm, real things never scared me, my fear was kept for imagination. Put me in front of a rottweiler, and I won't flinch, put me alone in the dark, I'll shake.

I was alone, the windows of the buildings looked like hollow eyes, dead, yet watching me with hunger. This was worst then any nightmare, and that's without considering the weakening hangover.

I nervously, hysterically even, tapped my pockets, a quick examination uncovering a key, with both a Celtic style decoration and a laser pointer on the chain, a broken cellphone, a pen, some moist papers, a small metallic, blue flashlight and a wallet, that contained some change, and for some reason, a black joker card.

I am the joker, I knew, this sent me on a flashback of the four of us, laughing as I cynically made jokes about a teacher of ours.

Suddenly, the street light started darkening, I couldn't bare the thought of the darkness, I ran to the main street.

It was to quite, and the party, which was there earlier this evening, seemed to have never exist, in fact, the street looked different and was strangely empty. Behind me, all the lights began to die.

I have turned on my flashlight, hysterically running and shouting, I looked at the card in my wallet for support, only to find a cold, dead smile- hiding a behind it corrupted, rotting face- my smile. I was the joker, the clown, mocking all those around him, but eventually being the joke.

I smile, an old habit, and sprint into the dark...