No Direction Home
By Bella Basura
Speared awake by shafts of stupid sunlight falling across my hangover face. My eyes are cracked open to an unfamiliar room. Washed up, face down, stranded at the high tidemark of last night’s intoxication.
Lying on a bare mattress, fully clothed, in a curtainless unoccupied room, no furniture.
Sitting up dizzily, I view dozens of big see-thru plastic bags piled against the blank walls. Evidence bags wadded full of incrimination.
Where the hell am I?
Lured by voices in the corridor, I turn to see a sign on my door.
In childish scrawl it reads “Welcome to the Plague Room”.