Everything hurts.

Waking up is as bad as it usually is. Aches and pains along with a soured stomach are things you expect after chasing the dragon, though you usually don't have a screaming headache like the one currently pounding beneath your skull. The floor beneath you is cold and dirty, concrete that hasn't been cleaned in years. This isn't the first time you've woken up in some abandoned building you can't remember going to, but as your eyes slowly come into focus you aren't so sure if this really is the norm or not.

The light in the room comes from candles placed around the place, sitting on pieces of abandoned furniture, crates, and tables. The walls are decrepit, covered in graffiti and stained filth. It wasn't really that unusual to wake up in a place like this. Junkies love abandoned buildings and it is kind of nice to ride out a high in a nice candlelit room instead of a pitch black one. Whoever set out the candles didn't think to toss down a mattress though, a shame really.

You don't quite feel like getting up just yet, but the sooner you do the sooner you can make some cash to score another dose.

Standing up, you flap your arms a bit in an attempt to rid yourself of the numb, tingling sensation that seems ever present in them now. You really should start injecting elsewhere, but what does it really matter at this point? The crooks of your elbows look like shit and that won't change. Sure it hurts like a bitch to stick a needle there now, but the reward after is worth it.

Looking around at the flickering candles, you notice that there are pictures hanging from the ceiling on strings or placed around the candles. Shuffling toward one half rotten table, you pick up one of the photographs. It isn't easy to see in the dim lighting, but as you hold it up in one hand and a candle in the other you recognize it. It's been years since you've seen this picture. A family portrait from when you were just a kid. One corner of it is torn, effectively removing one person from the picture.

Swearing under your breath, you pick up other pictures and frown as you see that all of them are of you or people you know. Childhood photos of yourself and your parents, pictures of an old boyfriend, pictures of friends you haven't heard from in a decade or more.

As you continue sorting through all of the photographs, you come across a tape recorder with a small cassette already loaded inside of it.

You listen To The Tape

Pressing the play button, you hear a voice start speaking from the recording. It's clearly been distorted, but you can hear the words well enough.

"Hello, Ciara. For most of your life, you have been a victim. But, you have never truly tried to rise above this victim status you have held for so long. Within this room, are photographs of your childhood. Your pictures progress from a happy little girl to that of a criminal, but what fueled this change? For years you have been too busy blaming others and using past wrongs against you as an excuse for your own misdeeds. Today, you will face your inner demons. Beyond the door of this room wait a series of tests. But, first, you must prove to yourself that your life is worth more than the addiction that rules it. The door out is locked and the key is within your reach, so is your drug of choice. Will you reach for the key to your freedom or will you stay a slave to your addiction? Live or die, Ciara, make your choice."

The tape goes silent as you feel fear start to take over the haze of cravings and the pounding of the migraine in the back of your skull. Looking around, you spot the door and hurry to it. Just as the tape said, it is locked with a heavy bolt. You've never seen a door like this before, it's solid steel and doesn't budge when you push against it. The bolt has a keyhole in it, but you don't see a key anywhere.

Looking around, all you can see are pictures hanging up illuminated by the flickering candlelight, some photographs on a crate surrounding by a circle of candles on the floor, and what looks like a binder laying on the floor in a dark corner of the room.

You look At The Hanging Photographs

You pluck the hanging pictures from the strings, tossing them to the floor as you go. None of them seem particularly significant. Each one is a picture of your child self, teen self, or mugshots. Scratching at your arms, you stop to gaze at one from when you were in high school. The girl in the picture is beautiful and smiling, but you know better than to be fooled. You remember what it felt like to force the smile for that picture, what was going on behind the pearly white grin.

Letting the picture fall to the ground, you continue around the room until you have looked at all the pictures that were hanging from the ceiling. None of them seem to be of consequence really, but it does feel strange to look at them all.