Dante
I open my eyes to see a popcorn ceiling overhead. Before I can finish thinking how much I f*****g hate popcorn ceilings, a pain like I’ve never felt before rips through my chest. I grunt and try to twist away from it. My cheek meets a plastic couch cover, and I recoil.
Where the f**k am I?
Glancing around as much as I can without agitating whatever’s going on in my chest yields little. Puke-brown walls. The back of the couch I seem to be laying on, a grandmotherly floral print.
Popcorn f*****g ceilings. I inhale and smell…soup? Chicken soup, I think, and medicinal alcohol.
None of this makes any goddamn sense, and I feel like s**t. My mouth is dry like I got blackout drunk and collapsed in someone’s shithole apartment, but I haven’t done that since college. Getting that drunk
