Waking up one morning, you realize you can’t recall going to bed the night before. You don’t know whose bed you’re lying in, either, or what series of events have led you to this place, to this state of _not knowing_. Not an ideal way to start the day.

You swing your legs over the bed and step onto a faux fur rug. It’s so soft, you hesitate, flexing your toes. You sigh, and stand up. At once, you’re aware of a nagging headache, your temples throbbing menacingly. Migraine material. You scrape a hand through your hair and moan.

A mirror on the back of the door reflects your own image back at you.

You’re a 20-something yuppie-looking dude with practically your whole life ahead of you. A guy not prone to excessive drinking, who doesn’t do drugs - at least not the hard ones. Straight as an arrow. Brown eyes, clear complexion, curly hair that’s slightly long but stylishly cut. And that six-pack didn’t get there by accident.

You look around the room. There is nothing to discern, no personal touches, except for the cheap rug, and a framed photograph on the end table next to the bed. You pick it up. A redhead stares back at the camera vacantly, unsmiling. She looks as lost as you feel.

A pile of clothing sits crumpled on a chair next to a chest of drawers. It fits, hugging your frame like a lost lover. A bit wrinkled, but it suits your clean cut good looks.

Outside the bedroom door stretches a darkened hallway. At the end of it, a table and some ugly, mismatched chairs. You creep into the kitchen hesitatingly. The seating accommodations aren’t the only ugly thing in here. The cupboards have been stained a depressing bile hue, perhaps due to years of chain-smoking and regret.

The apartment itself feels empty and abandoned. An old casement window suffers to let some light in. The silence is so oppressive, even the pipes refuse to groan when you run the tap to fill a glass with water.

You bring the glass to your lips, but stop when you catch a whiff of its contents. Like sulfur. You dump the water in the sink and lean over to spit down the drain. Your gag reflex works overtime to expel the unknown demons from the previous night. You decide this isn’t helping your headache, and straighten yourself back up.

What the hell happened last night? Your voice croaks out a rusty, “Hello?”

The sound disturbs the silence only briefly. In the corner of the room, a cobweb sighs wearily. Then the air settles back into its suffocating state.

You need to take a leak. Down the hall is a doorway you passed in your hurry to get to the kitchen. After taking care of business, you try the bathroom faucet, only to discover the water issue is apartment-wide. You return to the kitchen.

To the left of the fridge, an archway leads to a boring living room - no television. There’s only a couch and a worn coffee table. And against the wall, leans a sad little shelf, somewhat askew. A For Dummies book promises to teach you how to care for houseplants that don’t exist. Generic framed prints of flowers on the wall do their best to make up for it.

It’s time to get out of here. You return to the kitchen. The peephole on the apartment door glances out into a non-descript hallway. You glimpse around for a set of keys or a wallet, find nothing to anchor you to this place, and leave empty handed. You wonder if somebody is going to be pissed off about the unlocked door.

The corridor greets you mockingly with the typical smells of other people’s cooking. A door marked “Stairs” beckons against the backdrop of greasy walls and ugly carpet. You steel yourself and push the door open, wishing you’d at least been able to have a glass of water to temper the persistent hammering in your skull.

Down three flights of stairs in the lobby is a set of mailboxes. And in front of these mailboxes is a woman digging through a purse. She’s muttering to herself irritably. She can’t understand why some asshole would leave her behind, tits-up and ass to the wind, without the keys to her apartment, without even a text or a phone call. She spits the words out as though to purge herself of these indignities. When she hears the door swish closed behind you, she glances up. Her eyes widen and her nostrils flare.

For the first time today, you are hit with the familiar — it’s the redhead from the photograph upstairs.

“What the fuck, Jerry? You’ve been here this whole time?” Not giving you a chance to respond, she huffs angrily and steps over to you, forcefully plucking a thread from your jacket, as though offended by its existence. She glares into your eyes.

“So you took a cab home, is that it? Just leave a lady behind to fend for herself? And you stole my keys, asshat, so I had to _walk_ home! I couldn’t even take the bus because _you_ spent all my money at the machines!”

She pauses to narrow her eyes at you.

“What? What can you possibly have to say to that? You’re a moron.” The pronouncement is swift and matter-of-fact, as though she’s said it a thousand times.

You’re grasping for something to say that would explain everything, but come up with nothing. You stare helplessly, your mouth opening and shutting.

You decide that this is going to be a very bad day. Realizing this, your headache suddenly metamorphoses into the full-blown migraine that it was meant to be, that it had been itching to be all along. You breathe in through your nostrils and get ready to tell the truth. This woman standing before you, smelling of cheap perfume and futility, is a complete stranger.