By Mistake

Chapter 9 - Carnation.

Cassie Huwit

My head is pounding. I slowly blink my eyes to fully open, I'm in a white bed, wooden frame with carvings of flowers; to my left is a window with long, dark grey, pillar curtains - thankfully they are closed.

On my right is a white door - I assume leading out of the room - there is another door in front of the bed that's open, obvious that it is the bathroom as I can see the bath and a peak at the shower.

The room is large and very spacious, clearly not my apartment, there is a large dark brown dresser next to the door to the bathroom. I lift myself up by my elbows and immediately the room spins and my vision blurs. What the hell happened.

I wait for my vision to come back and lift myself up again, twisting my body to hang my legs over the right side of the bed, on the bed side table is a glass of water and a vase full of white carnations.

The smell of the carnations brings back the memory of that creepy florist and feeling like I was being watched, and my apartment being ruined then nothing.

Just as the past comes flooding back, my head spins again.

The floor creaks and strains, I walk towards the door.

I twist the knob and pull but the wood doesn't budge, I place my ear to the barricade, fidgeting with my hands, trying to hear someone outside but nothing.

I scream out a chain of pleas for help.

I begin to cry, the tears saturating my cheeks.

I hear soft creaks approaching the door like when you walk down old stairs. I wipe my face and smear the tears on my pants.

"Help! Who's out there!" A small hole on the door opens when a small piece of wood slides over from outside the door. I put my face up to the hole, trying to look out when I hear a 'psh' like something being sprayed, my vision starts to blur and I stumble to the ground.

Just as it goes black, I hear the door open.

The smell of cedar and whiskey with a hint of sweet nectar hits me, as well as strawberries and syrup.

I wake up back in the bed.

My head hurts again, I look over to the bedside table and see a tray of food.

Pancakes, still warm, with syrup and cut fruit, as well as a sandwich. A book accompanies the tray, a title and author I've never heard of before.

I get up to which the floor groans at; I walk over to the curtains and rip them open, a poster of clouds and trees hid behind it. What kind of sick joke is this?

I sit back on the bed and cry until I can't breathe.

I ate half of one of the pancakes and a couple pieces of fruit before running to the toilet to throw up.

I guess whatever was sprayed on me made me feel to sick to eat as well as make me faint. I lie on the cold bathroom floor, breathing rapidly, imagining that Alice is lying on the couch, hangover, that this is all just a bad hangover.

The clock on the wall taunts me. Every number the hand passes feels like it's laughing at me. I pace the room. I can't take the white walls caging me in, the bed still shaped the same as when I got up; I feel like I'm losing it, I am losing it.

I don't whether to sleep, or cry, or both I can't eat because I'll probably vomit again and I don't know if whoever has taken me will give me anymore food.

Will he be back?

Does he plan to leave me here to die?

I, shakily, open the tall doors of the dresser. A line of black men's shirts and an equal amount of black jeans underneath the shirts, folded.