Paranoia Prision » Places

          There was a long silence as soon as she apologized, and for a moment she felt awkward and uncomfortable knowing she should have probably said thank you rather than "I'm sorry", even so she didn't regret apologizing to this man. After all he had saved her life and she wanted to apologize for her hard grip on his arm, she felt even more apologetic when she saw him rubbing his hand carefully, making her feel the need to apologize once again. However she didn't apologize, instead she was still in shock of the situation, of seeing the dead woman and her asthma attack.

This time she realized something else, they were trapped, more like imprisoned, but why? She couldn't remember anything about this place, or more importantly she couldn't remember who she was in the first place. What have I done?! Why am I a prisoner? She continued to look surprised at the man, she was still not able to talk at ease as she still suffered the aftermath of her asthma attack.

It was then when the man spoke again, "W-who a-re you?" to which Jane was left speechless. She stared directly into the man giving him a desperate glare full of questions and confusion. She remained quiet for a long and her eyes moved to the sides. In desperation her hands moved to her hair ruffling every strand of hair they could, wishing that somehow her brain would give her an answer to... well to anything...
Instead she was left with a blank, she was like a clean slate, a clean canvas. She finally let her troubled hair alone and stared back at the man, "I... do-n't know... I... can't re-member.... ANYTHING" she was finally able to speak, more like mutter. Her voice came out almost as a faint whisper slowly becoming louder.

Her colored eyes continued to gaze into his,"... Why are we here? What do you know?!" before she even allowed him to respond she spoke rapidly again, "Tell me everything you know. she said now starring into the cold dead body of the girl, sobbing in fear and terror, "Please!" she finally begged in tears.

OOC: I'm also sorry for replying SO late! I will be more active promise!

         

Now, as fate would have it, his life was totally fucked up from that day on. It was the most… abhorrence of a day there ever was. It stared something like this:

First of all, he was out cold. Completely unaware of his surroundings. Then, he stirred. Not much; in fact, he barely moved… but it was enough. His hand brushed against the hard surface below him—the floor—and promptly became coated in some wet, sticky substance. Even in his mostly-unconscious state, his brow furled. Within a minute, he was almost awake. What the hell is this?

Finally opening his eyes, he stared vacantly at the sight before him. It was… it…was… Oh my god!

It was his hand. Doused in…ketchup? Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. To make things even weirder, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. Damn, his head hurt. Imagine the hangover from hell, intensify it 3 fold, and then imagine banging your head against the wall instead of taking coffee. Got it? Can you envision it? Good. That wasn’t it at all. HIS headache, it was more like… wait—who is “he,” exactly?

Well, that’s the problem. Maybe it was just his throbbing cranial muscle, but he swore he couldn’t quite remember who the hell he was. How did he get here, anyway? Where was here? Damn.

Glancing around, he noticed there were other people. A lot of people. Counting them, he saw there was 22. Wait—no, his bad. There were 11. Cut the guy some slack, he was seeing double. He was extremely hungry, too. Hungrier than hell. What kind of hangover was this? What the hell did he get high on? He couldn’t remember ever getting high on anything. Was he a drugged fool? Eh, who knows. Oh, the ketchup.

Looking back, he was pretty sure he wasn’t THAT stupid, but hey. Wake up with amnesia and a piercing migraine and see what you do. He soon realized it wasn’t ketchup, though. Did he scream in terror like a crazed tween fan girl? Yes. Yes he did. There’s no shame in that, either. Why? He did it INWARDLY. In his fuzzy hangover brain. Except, now he was pretty sure he got jumped, not drunk. Outwardly, he was a stupefied statue. Literally, he kept very still, staring down his bloodied hand like it was going to eat him.

One minute passed. Two minutes. Wait for it—cue look of utter mortification.

Oh, I’m not done, either. It gets better. Being the somewhat intelligent being he was, he came to gather a tiny shred of curiosity. Was it his blood? Where did it come from? He gingerly moved his hand, feeling the slick substance between his fingers like oil. As he finally realized he was fine—thank god—he looked around. It seemed everyone had blood on them.

But one stood out. There was this one girl simply marinated in the stuff. I mean marinated—you couldn’t make out anything. He squinted in the darkened room, trying to utilize the hazy light entering through three windows to his left. It was then he noticed how disfigured the girl—he thought it was a girl—was. When he leaned in closer, it became apparent she was dead. DEAD.

Cue freakout in 3…2…1… “FUCK!” It came out before he could even think. What if the killer was around? Sucking in a caustic breath, he scanned everywhere. EVERYWHERE. A door. Oh, sweet, sweet, sugar cookie—it was a door. He immediately sprang up, taking a moment to wipe his hand off on an unconscious individual. Seconds later, his hand closed on the frigid knob.

Locked.

Well, shit. To make matters worse, people were stirring. These mysteriously unknown people. THEY could be the murderer, for all he knew. Obviously, the sensible thing was to trust no one. And boy, was he sensible. At least—he tried to be.

What if they think HE’S the killer? He WAS the first one up… Crap—they might attack him, then the REAL culprit would get off scotch free… What solution did he have to this?

Simple. Dive bomb the ground and feign unconsciousness. Just until more people woke up.