The morning after

I woke up to my hands drenched in sweat, and a pounding headache.

The room smelled of rotting wood, the walls likely damp from the humidity of the air. There were no lights, just the dim presence of a lone moon shining behind the dirty window.

I blinked a few times and tried to get a grip on my surroundings, my sense of reality had not returned to me. I still felt stuck in a dream.

I rubbed my eyes a bit, only to feel them stinging from the residue I now realized was too thick and sticky to be sweat. Stumbling to the window with blurry eyes, I raised my palms to the light.

A soft voice purred from behind me then, but I was too disoriented to react in time.

The knife was across my throat before I could remember whose blood was spilled on my hands.