I awake to the sound of metal clanging against metal, and a darkness which shrouds my mind in confusion.
I gasp for breath, my chest heaving in agony. It's as if I've been holding my breath for the past hour, with a dull ache emerging from deep within my lungs, and no matter how much I lick my lips they remain dry and chapped.
My eyes dart around the total darkness as my hands fumble to find something – anything – to give me a clue as to where I am. I feel my body moving upwards at a fast pace, out of my control, in this room. If it even is a room. I place my sweaty palms down on the ground, and feel cool metal beneath my fingertips.
I'm in a lift.
It rapidly gains speed without warning, and my body is thrusted upwards once more in staggered movements. I let out a fearful cry, but no one's here to listen. I want to sob, however I don't have the energy to squeeze out a single tear. I squeeze my eyes shut in hope that when I open them I see something other than blackness, hear something other than the shrill sounds of the clanging and whirring. It's in that moment when I realise... I don't know who I am.
I don't know who I am.
My eyes dart open as the lift stops even more suddenly than it started, and I fall against some sort of bag to my left with a grunt. The noises of the lift have stopped, replaced by a soft, almost inaudible murmur of voices above me. I attempt to swallow the lump in my throat, to no avail. It feels like my head is about to explode, a pressure building up in my brain, threatening to explode. Without realising, my eyes are closed. I suppose it doesn't make much of a difference in this darkness... but I can't open them. It's as if they're glued shut, stitched together by an invisible force which insists on keeping me in darkness. My head abruptly hits the metal floor without control. I feel my body dragging me into a deep sleep, and I can't fight it. I fumble around in my pocket, and I don't know why, but I feel it's the right thing to do. It feels as if it's the most important thing I could possibly do in that instant. I can feel paper brush over my fingers, and I clasp that paper in my clenched hand. Then, one last thought floods my mind before I succumb to the sleep.
WICKED is good.