Hangover

You wake up on the floor. Nausea, a gentle sea, rocks you back and forth.  Jeans and t-shirt, miles of seaweed, land nowhere in sight. A slow swell of panic builds up in your gut, washes over you and settles in your throat. You get up, but the deck is unsteady.  You have no footing, legs bending wildly, your hands grasping at shadows.

You can see the clock, but the numbers have no meaning. A thin line of yellow light indicates a door. But what will you encounter along the way? Where will this jouney take you? You need to go to the bathroom but a large chinese man keeps passing you shots of Tequila from out of the darkness. He needs to be pushed out of the way along with unseen objects and the sound of people's laughter.

You make it to the door and slide it open in two goes.  The hallway is bright and squirming. The bathroom is just on the right. Take a seat. No, get up.  You need cold water, your head is tomato about to burst. There is no sink in the bathroom just a toilet. A few minutes just sitting, your face against the tile.

You wake on the toilet. The sun is up. The nightmare begins.