Aquarius: It’s someone’s living room, that’s very obvious. You’ve been laid out on their couch with a- you reach your hand up to double check- wet rag on your forehead. There’s a coffee table in front of you, and an armchair at corners with the couch. Across the room, there’s a half-wall separating a small kitchen from the rest of the room which has short bookshelves running along the length of it, seemingly more filled with trinkets than they are with books. There’s a white dining set in the other corner, sitting under the windows. The final corner of the room is taken up by a set of stairs, heading downwards, and there’s a hallway on the wall opposite the stairs between the sitting around and the kitchen.
There’s little touches of life all around the room. A bright red tablecloth on the dining table, a mess of magazines on the coffee table next to a cup of water, the colorful rug underneath the sitting area. The couch is soft under you, if a bit scratchy, and there’s a blanket thrown over the back of it. There’s picture frames on the walls and a radio on top of one of the bookshelves, and the curtains on the windows are a light lace that does nothing to block light. The walls are painted a pale yellow color and the floors are a light wood. It feels so warm.
None of this helps you identify where you are.
You slowly push yourself to sit upright, looking around you in a daze. The rag slides down off your forehead to land on your chest, and you suddenly realize you are not wearing a shirt. You blink. You could count your ribs if you wanted to. There’s a ragged, faded scar on your chest. You swallow hard, and make a small high pitched whine before you can help yourself. You close your eyes and take a breath, take stock.
You... don’t feel terrible, actually. You’re thirsty, but not to the point of gasping. You’re hungry, but not to the point of your stomach trying to kill the rest of you. You feel a bit more solid overall, still sore but your bones and muscles actually feel attached to each other, like they have a little weight behind them instead of just breakable weakness. You’re slowly developing a headache the longer you’re awake.
Turning so your legs hang off the front of the couch, you slowly make to grab the glass of water. It’s only slightly cooler than room temperature. You have to hold it in both hands because they were shaking too much. You go to sip it, and then you’re starting to quietly cry and you have no idea why.
You have no idea where you are, you don’t know where your shirt is, but somehow you feel better than you have since you ate that cake slice even as you feel like death stood you up, and now you’re crying as you slowly, carefully, drink your glass of water.
This is, of course, when Suzie walks in from the hallway.
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