Then it hits me. I’m being asked to leave. Does that mean I’m done? Have I been released?

I quickly survey myself, assessing my condition. My shirt is inside out and on backwards with the tag sticking out in front like a Roman collar. My zipper is down, and my shoes are untied. My whole head is pounding in sync with my beating heart, but I can’t tell if I’m injured or just terribly hungover. There’s a tarnished mirror behind the bar that shows red splotches on my face that look like rust. Definitely injured then, just a matter of how bad.

“Sorry,” I croak like a talking walrus. I can taste cigarette smoke on my breath and my throat is lined with shards of glass. I pat my pockets. My keys are in the front and that’s all.Wallet’s gone.

“Your friend paid the tab,” the hipster says, frowning and crossing his arms. His dwindling patience is almost depleted. “You need to go.”

My friend. Right. My good pal. Must have given a hell of a tip in order to leave me here.

“Need to go.” Wait, is that the same as, “Free to go?”

Every nerve ending screamed in agony as I stood. I used to drink enough flammable liquid to torch a building and wonder why I felt so bad the following day. The door was just ten or so steps to my right. Its frosted windowpane glowing with daylight, RED ROOM written across the front in gold lettering. But what if it’s just another fabrication? A lamp casting artificial light within a room filled with abominations and echolocating clones? What if I’m stuck in a never-ending series of torments for a crime I’ve already atoned for? Or maybe I’m mad and I’m imagining the whole thing. Maybe I’m dead and this is hell.

I braced myself as I reached for the brass door handle, expecting someone to grab me from behind. I pushed forward and the door held, either locked or jammed or fake. My shoulders slumped, and I nearly cried out in desperation. Then I pulled and the door swung easily on loose hinges, almost bashing me in the nose. Sunlight stabbed my eyes, causing me to squint, to sneeze. I staggered out into the ripe afternoon heat, the sun wavering directly overhead, and scanned the mid-size parking lot containing half a dozen cars, including mine. I could hear the whoosh of traffic on a nearby road. Could smell hot asphalt and tire rubber, scents more pleasing in their promise of freedom than a field of sunflowers. I may have been whimpering as I scampered toward my car, prying my keys from my pocket. I may have been weeping like a kid after a schoolyard scuffle, but I’d never admit to it outside of this confession to you.