I suppose the first hint there was trouble should have been the splitting headache that reminded me I was still very much among the living. The dead didn’t feel pain, after all. The second clue was probably all the more obvious, and that was the tingling in my fingers when I realized my hands were tied quite snugly behind me, too-tight at the wrists. Had I just awoken with the headache, I’d have simply assumed I’d had too much at the bar and somehow made it home, usually with the help of some compassionate friend who took pity on my regular over-indulgence.

The same friends who were probably glad to be rid of me once I was tucked behind my locked apartment door again. I’d ruined more than a few relationships — along with their upholstery — because of my bad habits in the past; I always told myself I’d get better, do better next time. I wouldn’t screw it up again next time. Well, here it was, the next time, and there weren’t any friends around to screw it up with. Just me, tied up nice and tight. Great.