21
When Brian came to, he was groggy as hell with what felt like the most monstrous hangover he’d ever endured. Bright white light flooded the room, stinging his half-open eyes. His throat dry, his bowels full, his head pulsating. For a moment Brian forgot where he was. Though forgot wasn’t quite right, it was as if he had no recollection of anything—no place, no person, no event. Then he smelt it.
Shit.
Actual s**t.
The stench of faeces hung heavily in the air. Brian tried moving his head, to locate the offending smell, but he was stiff as hell and it barely budged—each laboured movement produced stabbing pains in his neck.
He strained as hard as he could, felt something loosen in his gut.
Which was when he realised the smell was coming from him.
He’d soiled himself.
Brian gagged,
