It is the combined smell of rancid oil, sweat and sawdust that first register in my groggy mind.
I should open my eyes, but the incessant throbbing in my head makes that so difficult. I reach out, touching something, a plastic pole perhaps, and use it to pull myself up. Eventually I open my eyes a crack at a time and find myself looking at… a pink bird… I should know the name, but nothing comes to my fogged up brain.
I’m standing in some cheap alley. You know the type where you look down when you walk because you don’t want to step on anything. My stomach cramps, and heaves. I bend over, but nothing comes. Need help… I stagger over to the shop.
Excuse me, where am I?
There is a newspaper. No, today can’t be Wednesday. I’m sure last night was Saturday. Finished the conference… Went to a bar… Drank with a few locals…
The vendor is staring at me. I look down, trying to button up my open shirt. That’s when I notice it.
The scar across my stomach. Stitches. Why do I have stitches?
I heave again.
In response to The Sunday Photo Fiction – June 10 challenge, based on a picture by Susan Spaulding.