The Los Angeles Lighthouse | ✔

The Prolouge

IT was not my intention to find myself upside down, by the ankle, in a house that closely resembles the before shot in 'Fixer Upper'.

     The paneled up windows and shattered glass bottles could attest to that. Blood rushes to my head as my once groomed hair drapes down, practically blending in with the damaged, tawny floor boards.

     The dim lights flicker as a dark figure hesitantly hobbles forward. After a few feeble attempts at blinking the world into focus, the hunched figure slips into view. I frown and glance around, squinting slightly at the odd angle blocking the majority of my line of sight.

     Releasing a frustrated sigh, my body wiggles in a pathetic effort to get free. This hard work is rewarded by the promise of twirling in a never ending circle. By the third time around, my lunch stops agreeing with me. By the forth, spots dot my vision.

     How long had I been out? It can't have been long; meaning I should be close to the spot where... where... where what happened? I bite down on my lower lip and ignore the pain that blossoms as my teeth clash in frustration.

     The pain only grows as the room churns around me. Churning just like the blood flooding my head. My vision blurs and dances in a symphony of colors—the black leg of a table leg, the brown smear of wooden walls, the murky yellow stain but a few inches from my head. My throat tightens.

    "Please, someone, help!"

     "You're fully conscious," A hoarse voice from behind croaks. "I'm terribly sorry about all this."

     The rope continues to turn around in a painfully slow rotation. "Don't worry about me, I'll be there in a second."

     Still sick with nausea, I'm eventually spun around face to face with my kidnapper. Or rather face to floor. A pair of warm hands reach down and hoist my head up. That, of course, is the moment when my headache decides to strike. Excruciating throbs course through my brain, pounding and screeching. Banging on the walls of my skull like a maniac to the walls of an asylum. Desperate to escape. God, I want to escape. But what else could I do than wither and wait for the pounding to cease?

     The figure's hands immediately drop my head, unable to maintain their hold. The sudden release sends me swinging backwards and crashing into the leg of rather hard table. A clench of my jaw, a hiss of pain, an unsuccessful attempt at distracting myself from the situation... the situation. Which is... what exactly? Memories are scattered through my mind like the pieces of a freshly opened puzzle. Jumbled. A mess. Ever so slowly I'm able to snap the pieces together.

     As the throbs dull to a uncomfortable haze, the past becomes far clearer. Which begs the question: Mason Marks, what have you gotten yourself into?