45317
My head is killing me.
Which would make sense, if it is close to being in the same state as my apartment.
It's 10:40 PM. At least that's what the digital clock that hurts my eyes reads.
When I came to, the apartment door was kicked in, splintered. Some asshole broke the windows in the joint for no good reason. The room was ransacked...whoever was in here was looking for something and given how thorough they were in their destruction, I'm pretty sure they found it.
When I went to grab my throbbing head, I found in my swollen and bloody hand, a cell phone that has seen the wrong side of a heavy boot or something. Just like my head.
The cell phone squaks out some tortured ring, but none of the buttons work. I can't see the display, either.
I go through my pockets and find a receipt for someplace called Paragon. I was there, I guess, in the last few days. My waitress' name was Kate and I apparently paid with a credit card that said my name is Michael.
That's news to me.
Everything is news to me, except for some weird number that forms on my lips, as if I was born with it.
45317.
I don't have any idea what it is, but it's all I know and all I can remember right now.
Oh. I do remember seeing a movie like this. If I start tattooing things on my body to remember, I'll be very upset. I'm determined not to have this turn into a screenplay.
Despite the intruder's attempts, it appears that my computer is still functional, as evidenced by me setting up this blog as a sort of diary to try and find out who I am and why they did this to me. Something's missing. CD cases are empty and strewn all over the place.
I guess I have to find out what's gone. And why I can't remember anything but 45317 and that damn Memento movie. Pretty ironic.
There goes the cell phone again.
Wait.
That's the land line.
Which would make sense, if it is close to being in the same state as my apartment.
It's 10:40 PM. At least that's what the digital clock that hurts my eyes reads.
When I came to, the apartment door was kicked in, splintered. Some asshole broke the windows in the joint for no good reason. The room was ransacked...whoever was in here was looking for something and given how thorough they were in their destruction, I'm pretty sure they found it.
When I went to grab my throbbing head, I found in my swollen and bloody hand, a cell phone that has seen the wrong side of a heavy boot or something. Just like my head.
The cell phone squaks out some tortured ring, but none of the buttons work. I can't see the display, either.
I go through my pockets and find a receipt for someplace called Paragon. I was there, I guess, in the last few days. My waitress' name was Kate and I apparently paid with a credit card that said my name is Michael.
That's news to me.
Everything is news to me, except for some weird number that forms on my lips, as if I was born with it.
45317.
I don't have any idea what it is, but it's all I know and all I can remember right now.
Oh. I do remember seeing a movie like this. If I start tattooing things on my body to remember, I'll be very upset. I'm determined not to have this turn into a screenplay.
Despite the intruder's attempts, it appears that my computer is still functional, as evidenced by me setting up this blog as a sort of diary to try and find out who I am and why they did this to me. Something's missing. CD cases are empty and strewn all over the place.
I guess I have to find out what's gone. And why I can't remember anything but 45317 and that damn Memento movie. Pretty ironic.
There goes the cell phone again.
Wait.
That's the land line.
posted by Dim at 10:40 PM
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