15
Banging stirred me, and I wanted to yell at whoever thought hammering so early was a good idea to wizen the hell up, until I realised the noise came from inside my own head. A groan bubbled against the assault, its passage denied by a throat dry and course and swollen.
I opened my eyes, but it took effort and made the noise in my head hit dangerous levels. Grinding my teeth, I blinked a few times, the action seeming to make my eyeballs throb, like the time Karl Jameson had stabbed my cornea with a pencil over some dragged out argument we’d been having. I’d been ten at the time. Once I’d finished teaching him what I’d thought of his hit, Jameson couldn’t even grip the pencil, let alone hurt anyone with it.
Not that that had anything to do with where the hell I was, how the hell I got
