The moon was shining fiercely, more intense than any full moon he could ever recall. It was almost blindingly bright. Of course, he had never taken in the moon from his back, lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood.
“At least I can still see it there,” he thought, breathing heavily. “That means that I’m still alive.” But the swirl of the night’s events was overtaking his mind like an out of control carousel. The party, the jokes… who was insulted? Who started screaming accusations? “Why did I run?” he muttered. Nothing made sense.
He needed to be clear, clearer than he had ever been in his entire life… the life that now hung in the balance. (Rich 7/11/11)
Slowly he turned his head to the right and the movement made him grunt – excruciating pain, bolts of white flashes of that fierce moon like a rocket into his pulsating brain. The need to start assessing the reality of his situation was necessary but not tempting.
Memories where starting to line up in a more orderly fashion and he didn’t enjoy the way that the scenery unfolded. ”Oh no, he whispered,”I didn’t say that did I? Damn that Tequila….”
He could barely open his eyes, if he remembered it correctly there were a couple of terrible blows to both eyebrows and the swelling was troublesome to say the least. When he finally got his vision under control – he gasped for air. (Magdis 7/11/11)
Pain wracked his chest. The taste of blood flooded his mouth, and he began to choke. It was strange to hear your own death cry. He always pictured his final sound as a rebel yell, not this strange gurgling sound. He rolled over, agonizingly slow, and continued coughing up blood until only dry heaves remained. He spit the remaining blood out of his mouth and dropped his head to the dirt.
“Are you done yet? That’s quite the death cry you had going there. Leave it to you to die in the dirt, choking on your own blood. Though from the looks of it, I would say you don’t have much left in you. It’ll save me the trouble of killing you.” Though the voice was melodic, the words were cold steel.
Holding his rib, he struggled to his knees, gasping for breath. Dark hair covered his proud defiant eyes, but not the familiar smirk. A silver 9 mm handgun touched his forehead. He didn’t recognize the gun, but he knew its owner. Tequila, the woman who had started this whole mess. (Tiffany 7/12/11)
“Ah, you are still with it enough to recognize me. Good. I want you totally aware of how you feel.” Tequila’s voice was strong and filled with vengeance. She stood over Daniel Jacks staring through unsympathetic eyes. There was not an ounce of pity in her to ooze out and mingle with his blood. She gently shoved his body back to the earth.
She was thinking out loud, “We have no time to waste. It is only a few hours until sunrise.” By this time, Daniel was feeling very weak and disoriented. He begged her, “Please stop. Why are you doing this to me?” He was trying his best to gather what little strength he had left to pull himself up. But, every time he managed to lift his body just slightly off the ground, Tequila would lift her foot up and gently push him down. The time and place seemed surreal to Daniel. All he could think was that maybe hopefully someone had seen them leaving the party together… someone that knew their history.
Daniel was getting frantic inside. He needed to escape. With all his injuries and the pain he was enduring, he knew escape was impossible. Silently, his mind was racing, “Think, Daniel, think…you can’t just lay here like a victim. You have to try and fight back. You can’t let her do this again.” (Nico 7/12/2011)
Oddly, I Will Survive began wafting through the halls of his psyche, his head seemingly throbbing to the beat. "What the . . . ?" He'd always been one to lean more toward Alice Cooper than Gloria Gaynor, more likely to be seen in some ramshackle biker bar than Studio 54. Just as he began wondering if he'd ever see his Harley again, another kick to the ribs brought him back to the present moment.
"I suggest you say your prayers." Tequila hissed. Although it was still dark, the lunar sheen on her makeup-streaked face conjured visions of some primitive warpainted she-bitch. He couldn't help wondering, however briefly, what he'd ever seen in that mascara disaster.
"Wait a minute though," he thought. "If her makeup is streaked, she's been crying." He'd been down that road with her more than once. This time, however, the potential to use her emotion against her became a growing ray of hope. (Melinda 7/13/11)