Lost.

CHAPTER I

As my tongue touches the roof of my mouth, the overwhelming anxiety instantly consumes me. I no longer taste the heinous morning breath that usually plagues me until I slaughter it in its tracks by way of Listerine liquid. I taste asbestos, saw dust, and stale air. I open my tired, bloodshot eyes, and gaze upon the sanguine wall in front of me.

I suppose that I should do a bit of back peddling, retracing my steps, etcetera. I rummage through the pockets of my pants for some sort of clue as to what happened, where the fuck I am, how to get home. I find a receipt from the pharmacy for a 2-liter bottle of Sprite, a 6 pack of Red Stripe, and 1 box of Dramamine. No cell phone, I do however still have my wallet. My thoughts are racing, yet they overlap in a dizzying manner.

With no insight found, I look around this foreign room for some sort of clue. The paint is chipping away from the walls like the bark on a weathered and aged oak tree, the floorboards kissed with the shavings of the once fresh coat. One window, no door. No. Door. I approached the window at a crawl of a pace, for I am unsure of who is watching me. The paranoia is almost crippling, I feel like I am on a bad acid trip.

As I approached the window, I felt a shadows presence overtake me. Shake it off. I see cars whizzing by, commuters hustling and bustling to make it to their respective trains. Drug dealers trading the hard-earned funds of city folk for their bagged-up escapism. Something seems off though. The people before me are almost glitching, as if their very beings were being broadcasted via antennae, and there was a disruption in the signal. This is all too much for my swimming head.

"Thomas, I have been waiting for you to finally join me." says the now tangible being that was merely a shadow behind me.

"Who the fuck are you and where is Molly!? Where the fuck am I!? Answer me!" I scream, as my voice breaks. I feel like I have been hollering for hours.

"Your bitch Molly is fine. You, however." says the man before me, tapping his chin with his bony middle finger. His pause in speech feels like an eternity. He clicks his teeth and carries on.

"You, Mr. Thomas, are far from it. My name is Belzah, and you have something that belongs to me. I want it back."

"What could I possibly have of yours!? This shit in my pockets?" I yell at Belzah.

"Hahahahaha. No, no, Mr. Thomas, none of that. You have intercepted my latest shipment of Peruvian cocaine, 6 kilos to be precise. It was shipped to your Manhattan apartment by mistake, and we happen to know for a fact that you have in fact received and opened the package. So where is it, little American fucking swine?" belts out Belzah, chortling throughout.

Then it hits me. Memory of the day prior seeps in like the sun’s rays through venetian blinds on a summer day. Molly finding a box at our door, the sound of a box cutter gliding through the heavy-duty packing tape, confusion. The door was kicked in, and three men stormed our apartment.

One of the men hit Molly over the head with a Maglite and the other two had me by my arms and legs, screaming "Where the fuck is it!? Where's the fucking product!?". I feel a sharp pain in my head. I feel blood rushing past my eyes as I start to drift in and out of consciousness.