Oranges. It smells like oranges, I think. But, not the ones you dig a finger nail into just before revealing the flesh, the ones you find in cylinders to cover the real smell. The shit. The stink. The smell of polyester and sweat. Vomit and disgust. The basement bathroom, the house guest uses because the veal parmesian wasn't 'sitting right'. I think.
My mind struggles in the balance. The edge of conciousness and sleep. The tidal slack. High. Low tide. Who fucking knows.
My right hand instinctively thumbs the safety. My left, glides over the features of a doll, I guess. Its over exagerated features. Chin. Cheeks. Hips. Too dark to tell what configuration the doll is trying to exude. On the other hand. The gun. Simple. Metal. Speed. Death. If loaded. I checked the clip. Empty.
It's too goddam dark in here. Air is hot, stiffling, throat drying. Water. I wish I had water. My throat feels like sandpaper. I think. I lie.
My thumb glances over what I can only imagine are painted blue eyes hovering below thin brows.
Hands are the only thing moving, working against the dark restraint. My back. Hurts like a mother fucker. Blood caked lips. Nose broken, I think.
"On your feet."
A tin canned voice.
Too dark. Smells like shitty oranges and something else. I think.
"ON YOUR FEET"
A little more stearnly, but still mechanical.
"Do you know where you are."
I nodded. I think.
"Do you know who you are?"
I nodded. Who the fuck am I? I thought.
Safety on, safety off. Some cobwebbed space in my mind wished the gun was loaded.
I held the doll by the thinness between it's disproportionate head and shoulder. Choking, inanimatley.
"Very good. Move onto the next room, please."