I sat up abruptly, wide-awake and crystal clear, expecting the fight of my life.
So how did I end up at home in my own bed, pajamas on, with the morning sun beaming happily in at me?
Did I dream the entire thing? Was it some kind of horrid nightmare? Had to be. How else did I make it home and into bed, safe and sound, when my mind told me I was so close to suffering a fate worse than death?
I had almost convinced myself when I happened to look down at my hands. They were filthy, coated in caked mud, one of the nails cracked and peeling, dried blood pooled around the edges. I stumbled out of bed, muscles aching. I limped the first few steps, right leg burning like I'd pulled a muscle before making it to my mirror.
And gasping at my reflection. I'd heard the expression, 'looks like hell'
