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Randall could tell that he was in a small room, and he could tell that he was not alone. He heard dripping water. He heard that it was hitting concrete. There was a sickly sweet smell- it was mold.
Occasionally he’d ask “Where am I?” and “Why am I here?” but he never got an answer. The blindfold let in some light, but he could not make out any images.
He winced from the pain at the back of his head. Someone had hit him- hard.
The last thing he remembered was sleeping with that waitress- what’s-her-name.
Now, he was here, tied to a chair someplace dank. But he was not alone. He could feel the other person breathing. He could feel the other person watching him.
He remembered a dream he’d had about a leaking bellybutton, but he couldn’t remember enough to put it back together.
Suddenly, there were footsteps. Randall waited as whoever was in the room with him moved closer, and put something cold and metallic against his temple.
He tried not to panic. If this was his time to die, he thought, he’d do it with dignity. He would not panic, and he would not cry. This was the one thing that Hogarth had always told him; never let the situation rob you of your dignity.
So, Randall sat quietly with something cold and metallic pressed against his head.
“I just want to know why.” Randall finally said.
“I just need to know.”
After a second more pregnant silence, Randall finally heard a voice.
“Be more specific.” The voice said.