Slammer

PROLOGUE

A SLITHER OF sunlight peeked in through the curtains hanging from the single window in the room, blinding me when I opened my crust-filled eyes. Pain radiated through my brain, splintering across my synapses. Groaning from the severe headache, I slammed my eyes closed and prayed that I wouldn’t throw up all over myself.

My head ached with the beat of my heart, a sledgehammer landing against my forehead with each pump of my blood. I rubbed at my sore temples in hopes of making the pain lessen, but there was only the mind-numbing ache.

The stale remnants of beer lathered my dry tongue like flavored cotton. Smacking my lips together, I swallowed the sandpaper that glazed my tight throat. Cravings for water rolled through my stomach as I prayed for moisture in my mouth and a pain-free mind.

Again, I opened my eyes, my blurry vision landing on the ripped curtain flowing from the window like a silky waterfall. It swayed in a breeze I didn’t feel, directing my attention to the ceiling fan above me. I stared as the blades cut through the musty air, making dust particles dance in the slice of light from outside.

In the distance, the sound of a clock teased the pain hammering through my brain, making my dark lashes flutter in agony.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

It was almost too much to handle.

I moved to sit up, but fire shot down my spine, making me gasp. The pain was hot and blazed through my body like fire-tipped daggers. Trying to cry out was futile. Only broken, hushed noises pushed past my cracked lips. I licked them, thick, dried blood tingeing my taste buds and filling my mouth with the metallic flavor of life.

That was when the smell hit me—the acrid scent of death. It was unlike anything I’d ever smelled before—like the end of someone—like dark cries in the night and rotting flesh. Topping it off was the overwhelming scent of blood. It hovered over me, suffocating me. Someone had bled out near me. There had to be more somewhere, and it was considerably more than the tiny bit that seeped from my chapped lips.

I tried to remember the night before, but there was nothing but a few flashes of color—tiny moments of memory that included blonde hair and red, luscious lips—Sarah. I’d been with her. She’d wrapped her sweet lips around my cock and showed me a night I would never forget, but that was all I remembered.

I wasn’t sure where I was or how I’d gotten there. Actually, any memories I had of the last few days of my life were gone, except for a few flashes every now and again. Any others were swiped clean from my mind and replaced with nothingness—the equivalent of a TV with no signal—a gray mass of fuzziness.

Wherever I was, I knew I needed to get the hell out of there and get home. My mom would be waiting for me. I wasn’t a baby, but even at nineteen, I still checked in. Being an only child meant my mother was very protective of me.

I was a respectful young man. After living with an abusive husband for most of her adult life, my mom taught me well. Since my father’s death, it had only been us, and I wasn’t about to have her sitting home worried for longer than she needed to be.

Rolling onto my side proved to be harder than it should’ve been, but I managed. I gasped at the pain and stiffness in my body. I was on a hardwood floor, and there was no telling how long I’d been lying there. If the pain in my young body was any kind of indication, I’d say days.

I rolled over completely and paused. Breath rushed from my lungs, leaving them deflated and still. Cold, lifeless eyes stared back at me—eyes of death—eyes of the end.

It was an unfamiliar guy with light hair and blue eyes. However, a cloudy fog had formed over his eyes, leaving them looking gray instead. His mouth was gaped open, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. It was as if he’d screamed his final breath—screams that I could almost remember hearing. And then my eyes moved down, landing on the bloody stump where his neck used to be.

There was no body. Just his head and those eyes that cut through me accusingly.

I jumped back, not even feeling the pain I knew was there in my scramble to get away from the decapitated head. I’d never seen a dead person before, other than on TV. It was gruesome, and I was sure I’d never forget it for the rest of my life… however long that might be.

My back met the wall, and I cracked my head against the crumbling sheetrock. From my new vantage point, I could see the room as a whole. I looked around in fear for my own life. Whoever had beheaded the man before me could still be there. He could be after me next.

The room came into focus—the bare, tobacco-stained walls, the lone couch in the center of the room, and the table in front of the couch covered with empty beer cans and ripped clothes—I couldn’t remember any of it.