Tired.
The alarm isn't going off. She can't quite make out the digits, but it looks like 5:00. What time was she going to get up, again?
Not at 5AM, that's for sure. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and waits to fall back asleep.
The shrill cracking sound of glass breaking is more rousing than an alarm could ever be. It's not the sound of a bowl clattering to a tile floor or a dropped mug shattering. It's harsher, more violent. Glass exploding, perhaps, although that might be going a bit far.
And it's still not enough to get out of bed at 5 in the morning. Not with her body feeling like this, sore and aching from some faint memory of something. Not with this lingering headache, feeling like the back of her skull was split open, like her brain was -
More glass breaking. Someone yells, but their voice is hoarse, too muffled to be comprehensible. A one-sided disagreement: nobody shouts back. For a moment, it's quiet.
Sunlight filters in through the blinds.
She rubs her eyes, but that just makes them hurt more, so she closes them. There's something comforting in the darkness.
Everything hurts. Pain isn't an entirely foreign sensation, but this is different. It's distant - phantom pains, faint but still there.
It's hard to get out of bed. It should be easier, given that she's already wearing her normal clothing, which isn't even wrinkled. Or how she'd been sleeping on top of the blanket. And yet, rolling off the bed and standing up is the most difficult thing she's done all day.
And I'm just getting started.
She turns on the light before opening the blinds; the light goes off a half second later. She doesn't remember being able to sleep in until 5 in the afternoon. Maybe that is the most difficult thing she's done all day.
A quick glance at the calendar reveals that it's a school day. But there's no memory of that, not even a faint recollection. Maybe she'd decided to skip this morning. Yesterday hadn't been great, if this vague feeling of misery she has is anything to go by.
Why does it hurt so much? Screaming, throat ragged.
School's not that important, anyways. What is important is figuring out what's going on. Her mind is a little fuzzy today, for some reason, but she's pretty sure that yelling and smashing things isn't normal.
She shivers, then pulls a coat out of the closet. The calendar says it's January, and it certainly feels like it. She'll have to turn up the thermostat when she gets downstairs.
It's a difficult decision, whether to run down the stairs or descend carefully, but 'awkward half-limp' is a suitable compromise. It's hard to tell which leg hurts more, so she gambles on left and stumbles a bit when her right freezes up.
The kitchen is a mess. It's not like it's ever particularly clean, at least not in recent memory, but this is different than 'I didn't wash the dishes last night'. It has more of a 'drunken bar fight' feeling to it. Not a pleasant sight.
A man sits on a chair at the island. He faces away from her, but she knows him. The figure is familiar, comforting. He's hunched over too far, his clothing is too messy, but...
The chair he's sitting in is still in good shape, somehow. Its two counterparts aren't. They've been almost entirely destroyed, legs broken off and left discarded on the ground. Shards of glass and pools of liquid complete the picture. The liquid is mostly clear - alcohol? - but some is blood red, staining the broken pieces of furniture.
He's staring at the wall, humming something to himself. The tune is almost recognizable, tugging at the corners of her memory. A bit of warmth; she smiles, barely. Everything will be okay.
It's like a little game, trying to tiptoe around the broken glass without hurting herself or drawing the man's attention. Something about the thought is amusing - she remembers playing some sort of game like this with a friend, once. Good memories.
Friend. The man is a friend - no, that's not quite right.
Family. My father.
The realization hits her hard, almost physical, and she half-stumbles, a shard of glass digging into her foot.
She cuts off a startled cry, looks up. The man - Dad - doesn't move for a second, then turns.
He stares at her, for a second, then yells, incoherent.
One cautious step back isn't enough to dodge a flung wine bottle. It smashes against her shoulder, shatters, pushing her back. Remnants splatter her clothing.
Damp, cold, disgusting.
Damp, disgusting, scraping. More screaming, and she isn't sure if it's her, or him, or both of them.
She shakes, steps over more junk, backing away towards the door. He had looked like her father from behind, but now, she realizes that she doesn't recognize the red-faced man at all. A stranger in her home... or is she a stranger in his home? Where am I?
He's screaming at her, now. Rage, or fear, or something else. It's all the more reason to get out, turn the lock, push open the door.
Something heavy hits her in the back as she staggers out the door. Only by twisting her body is she able to manage falling on her back onto the small lawn.
She looks up, pushing her body off the ground with her right arm, to see the man staring at her.
Her, weak, barely moving, half-dead. Him, shaking, with eyes darting about, ragged breathing through a fierce glare, rage.
Who is he?
The door slams shut.