by Mr. W
She woke up groggy, thinking she was in her bed in her parents’ old house, realizing she was on an unfamiliar leather sofa. The room was dim; some dull light seeped through the closed blinds and reflected off a flat-panel television in the corner. She didn’t know what time it was.
She untangled herself from the scratchy blanket and ran her hands through her short hair. She could taste cigarettes and blood. No need to panic, not yet, she thought as she felt around the carpet for her flip flops.
Wait a second. This doesn’t taste like my blood.