I rip my eyes open. There’s a table in front of me. It’s steely, cold, and bolted very firmly to the floor. My hands feel strange. It takes me a moment to realize that there are two reasons for that.
One is that they’re cuffed to hooks embedded in the table top. That’s problematic. We’ll circle back.
The other, weirder reason my hands look unusual is that they’re dirty in a way that they weren’t when I went to sleep. There’s a faint, dark residue caked under the nails of my right hand. Based off the copious amounts of true crime I’ve consumed over the years, I’d say it’s gunpowder residue and the forensics powder they use to test for it.
My thoughts are slowly starting to take shape as the sleeping pill’s effects wear off. I’m pretty sure I’ve been here for a while. My ass is numb and s
