The barmaid
I didn't even know her name.
Did she show me her house?
How did I get here, and why can't I remember anything?
After trying to calm myself with the breathing exercises my therapist recommended, I started checking the room.
It was a cheap blue hotel room with old furniture, a 90s TV, and fingerprints all over the walls.
I looked for my phone, but I couldn't find it anywhere.
The toilet smelled awful, so I closed the door and made sure the room door was locked.
That's when the overthinking started, the kind my therapist described as the worst part of me. Look where my overthinking got me.
Once I pulled myself together, I started gathering any clues I could find about what had happened, whether from my damned memory or from the cheap room.
I couldn't remember anything. Damn it! Could I have done this? But how?
I opened the toilet door, closed the shower curtain, and washed the waitress.
You might think what I did was wrong, but it seems luck wasn't on my side.
I washed the blood off the hem of my shirt, but then I noticed that everything I was wearing was stained with blood, so I took it off and washed myself.
I noticed something strange while I was washing: I didn't have a single scratch. No cuts, no bruises, nothing.
I went to bed and saw blood and signs of being dragged to the toilet, but there were no signs that I had done it.
Damn it, how did I get here? Did someone bring me? Why can't I remember anything?
Suddenly, I heard a sound coming from the waitress's phone. I cautiously approached and took it out. I looked, and the caller ID said "Dear."
The phone fell from my hand, and I couldn't answer. She was a human being, and she had a "Dear."
Damn it. I didn't have to wait long before the phone rang again.
I've never felt so nervous in my life.
Answered.
The caller said, "Hello, my old friend."
Yes, it was Michael.