Paradise Lost

The following is a sort of prologue to a short story I'm trying to write.
I actually don't have a clue how it will end out, yet. Somehow, I had this opening scene in my mind pretty clearly.
The story will (probably) end up being a short, supernatural themed thriller. I think this opening kind of sets the dark, scary atmosphere I want. I'll post some more updates when I come up with more.

Let me know what you think.


I woke up.

I was hanging over a toilet bowl, and I had a blasting headache.
I looked around carefully, every heartbeat threatening to blow my brains all over the toilet stall.
Trying to get my bearings again, I was attempting to figure out how I ended up almost face-down in a toilet bowl.
Not only could I not remember how I got myself down there, I couldn't even tell where I was. Not to mention several other things I couldn't remember.
I couldn't remember my name.
I couldn't remember anything else about myself.
I couldn't just not remember what happened before I ended up here, I couldn't remember anything before I got here.

Slowly, it occurred to me that I had woken up to one of the greatest Hollywood cliches there is :

I had lost my memory.

I didn't have a clue where I was. Neither did I have a clue who I was.

Still wondering about it, I walked out of the stall, and was in for another surprise - neither did I know how I looked. My reflection in the mirror scared the living hell out of me. My face was cut, scarred, and covered with dried-up blood. I could either be wearing a white shirt with lots of red stains on it, or simply a red shirt with a few white spots. I looked like something out of a cheap zombie-snuff movie.
After having cleaned the worst blood stains off my face, and having failed miserably at any other attempt to fix myself up, I walked up to the door leading out of the toilets. It led to a dimly lit hallway, the door to the female restrooms right in front of me. The walls of the hallway were randomly littered with small paintings. The paintings showed a distinct lack of good taste, and would've made most 19th century masters instantly quit their painting careers, to go tend gardens somewhere.

At the end of this hallway there was another door. It opened into a big room, again pretty dark. There was a bar on the far end, two big doors on the left side, and a few high tables scattered throughout the room. The wall behind the bar had a few shelves, well stocked with bottles of liquor. Triggering me like one of Pavlov's dogs, I instantly felt like having a drink. I walked to the bar, and looked around for the bartender. It was not until then that I started wondering where everybody else was. There were glasses on the tables, some of them half-filled - or half-emptied, make your own choice here.
I leaned over the bar, and discovered why it took the bartender so long to come up. Behind the bar, there was a well dressed, decapitated body. The floor was covered with blood. I couldn't find the head anywhere. I backed away from the bar, and strumbled out of the room. Opening the doors, I walked into a large, and surprisingly well-lit room. I wish that room were dark. Even today, I still regularly have nightmares about the sight I was treated to.

There were people here. Or at least, there were pieces of people.
I was in some kind of lobby, it seemed like a hotel. Scattered throughout the room, there were cut-off hands, arms, and legs. I even noticed a head, before I ran out of the place in terror.

Out on the street, I ran to the nearest corner, and threw up. I felt awful. It was like I was throwing up all of my intestines. The horrible pain in my head made it feel like my brain would soon come loose, so I could throw that up as well.

I turned around as I heard a sound behind me.
The last thing I saw was a large stick or bat headed on a straight collision course with my head.
It hit me, and I passed out.

It was the grand opening of the worst night of my life.
And I couldn't even remember whether the day had at least started well.