Here's a pretty random piece of prose that I wrote today..might leave it as a stand alone, could develop into something else, who knows. ------------------------------------ You feel yourself falling to the hardwood floor, thoughts spinning through your head as it smacks in rythm to the surface. You think nothing; you can't. Nor do you feel. You have no recollection of what has happened to you, and for a split second you forget who you are. The only thing you can even fabricate is pain, and enormous amounts of it. You somehow mannage to maneuver your hand up to your head and you recoil. There is a large patch of blood strewn about everywhere around you, including your skin; you're dazed. You open your eyes, but it was a struggle.You couldn't push past the morning crust that formed around them, and it felt as though you were trying to lift cinder blocks off your eyes.You gaze at your surroundings and realize that you are in your very own living room. The sound of Trent Reznor's voice floods your ears as you peer into a large speaker, but see nothing but the blackness. You can feel it vibrating as its turned to full blast, and you attempt to push yourself up from your now blood-stained ground. You fail, and fall before you could even put your feet in the correct position. You begin to crawl, unsure of where you're going. Other people are laying about your furniature, some laying on top of others, all of them passed out, atleast to your knowledge.You don't know any of them, and they could be dead, for all you know. You use the arm of your chair to pull yourself up, and you step on a beer bottle, causing it to spin and hit your fireplace, making an awful clanking noise that your mind is not ready for. A faint moan escapes your mouth as you gaze down at your arm. A large gash is placed on it, and the blood is caked on from not being attended to immediately.You shrug it off, because its not giving you pain, and therefore it is unimportant. You walk into your kitchen still only half conscious. Someone had maliciously opened your curtains and left them to cause a beam of light to blind your eyes.You breathe in deeply as you pull your hands over your eyes to block it.Your eyes follow the number of beer bottles that are scattered among your counter, your floor, and piled into your sink. Eighty. You're amazed you can do math while you're in this condition, much less have the capacity to even render one thought. You fumble around the top of your microwave for the bottle of asprin; your savior. You have trouble opening the bottle at first, but you use your hands to manipulate the cap and it comes off willingly. You pour out two tablets into the palm of your hand and grab one of the many beer bottles that are present, regardless if it was yours or not, hoping there is still some fluid left. You know you shouldn't disregard the 'do not consume with alcohol' warning on the bottle, but at this point, you could care less. You cock your head back and put the pills in your mouth one at a time, and wash them down. You throw the bottle to the floor and let it make a loud crash, and you leave it lay in shards, dangerous to a bare foot. Atleast you have shoes on. A haggard-looking man has his head resting in his hand and a beer bottle clutched in the other, and he is barley sitting at your table. You notice he is not wearing a shirt, and you notice large red marks randomly covering his tanned flesh. His dark hair is long and tangled, plastered to his skin with sweat and blood. You know him as Caine, and he's your friend.You figure he is the catalyst of this situation, and you strike him over the head with your hand in attempts to wake him. He groans and puts his hand to his forehead, looking at you, with his dark eyes. He scrunches his nose and scratches at his head. "We are in a shitload of trouble," You hiss at him, pulling him up from the chair he's sitting on. He stumbles and lands in your arms, but then stands on his own. He peers around the room and gazes at the clock; five o' clock in the morning. He groans again more at the time he's being woken at than toll the amount of alcohol he'd consumed the night before had taken on him. He begins to vomit as you turn his head away from yours, avoiding the puke. Horrid coughs escape his mouth, and at one point you think he may have coughed up blood. "That's gross, man," You trail off, in disgust. He flips you off and stumbles around, shaking his head. He grabs the asprin bottle from your other hand, and repeats the process in which you had no more than five minutes ago. You stare at the fridge and see a large piece of paper with your father's handwriting on it, and you snatch it off and read it. You finally realize that your parents are on vacation in Monaco, and they'd left you the house for the week. You try to remember their reasonings for not bringing you along on the trip, but its too much for you and you shake your head. You hear the sick sound of a doorknob turning and a door being pushed open, and a moan escapes your mouth. You look at the piece of paper that firmly states, "Do not throw a party while your mother and I are away," and all you can think at that point is, Oops.