I’m aware of a pounding headache like nails being hammered through my temples, into my skull. I hear myself groan loudly, before trying to get up, feeling weighted down and sick to my stomach. The motion of the car is no longer present, and this makes panic rise in my throat like bile.
I blink a few times and the room comes to focus; four grey walls, a wooden table in the center, intricate tapestries hanging from the ceiling, all bathed in the soft orange glow produced by the flames of the candlestick. To my left, there is a window but its sealed shut and the sunlight that filters through the cracks is weak, dying. To my right, there is a door with a similar fate.
I can’t see much else. My vision is still blurry.
I try to lift myself higher up from the bed; it creaks, as if the slightes
