I woke up, gripping a small wad of cloth in my scratched hand. Already I could feel warm blood melting in through my thin sweater to my exposed back. What was left of my clothes hung limply off of me, tattered and worn. Lifting my hand up to my nose, I wiped away some of the blood from where the man had punched it.
Despite the fact that my head was throbbing terribly, I attempted to sit up. Pain shot through me and I let myself fall back again. Because it was less painful, I decided to take a look around. I turned my head, only to find myself staring right into the ear of another person. My mind snapped back into focus.
Mark
The bump on my head swelled and all of my thoughts gathered into a mess of words. My back burned from the knife scratch that ran up my spine, and in my mouth I had the suspicion that I tasted blood. But even after the fight I was alive and in one piece.
A groan came from beside me and I turned to see Mark, with some difficulty, make his way into a sitting position. His eyes seemed to adjust and he turned to stare at me.
“Shea?” he asked, his eyes widened with surprise. “We- I- how...” he trailed off looking embarrassed.
I lifted my right arm in response. After a few seconds my mind cleared and I realized that he probably want an answer, so I managed to croak out, “um, hi.”
I must have looked stupid there, lying in a puddle of my own blood, stained clothes hanging like rags off of me. Bracing myself against a wall I began to pull myself up. As I leaned against the pealing plaster I let my head rest so it would register the fact that I now had concessions. When I was ready to talk again, I addressed Mark, “Well, uh, do you know where we are?”
“Aside from being in a giant white room with nothing but a chair, I still am as clueless as I was before I woke up.” Mark steadied himself of the chair and he stood. Rubbing his shoulder, he mumbled something about his back hurting and walked across the room.
When he turned I noticed that he also had a large stab across his back. Guess whoever we fought didn’t take to kindly to “careful knife usage”. He was shirtless with only some torn green pants that were smeared with a dark red substance that I did not want to think about for much longer. I looked at the torn black shorts I wore, half covered by a baggy oversized t-shirt. Ether I had come in my pajamas, or fashion had gone on holiday, nether of which I should be worried about right now.
I whipped my hand to my ear, feeling for my earrings.
The only thing there was the warm trickling blood from my ripped earlobe
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