[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/33jFJ9J.jpg[/img][/center] Pain was a peculiar thing. It could be sudden and sharp, much like getting stabbed through the heart. It didn't last, but the feeling still lingered, causing one to get a sort of phantom pain, where just remembering the moment would be unbearable. Yet, sometimes it persisted, gnawing away at the body and mind until it fractured the spirit alongside it. That was the worst kind. An agony with no remedy, no cure. There was no solace to be had in what happened to him. He couldn't find it, no matter how deep he searched within himself. Probably never will. He shouldn't be so lucky. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. The goddamned pain of being burned alive. He found himself gradually opening his eyes, waning light coming in through the shutters of his bedroom. The entire world seemed dim, and, staring out into the world with blurred vision, collapsing in on itself. It was disorienting, unfamiliar, alien, and largely absurd. He didn't like it. It made him feel uncomfortable. A bad dream, he thought of it as. The flames roaring all around him as the blaze lapped hungrily at his heels. Diving through the window, shards of broken glass digging into his skin as he slammed against the asphalt. By God, he could still hear himself screaming as the fire scorched his skin, peeling it back as if digging into his flesh and bones. He sat up from his bed, repressing the urge to whimper and cry at the pain of moving with singed skin. It was sheer luck he managed to stumble back to his apartment without going into shock. He could recall that numbness that overcame him as he drugged himself with morphine and wrapped his body in gauze and medical tape. The effects had long worn off, of course, if the bloodied bandages were any indication. Slowly, he began to stand, stumbling over to his desk and reaching for his beeping phone. Strange how it still remained intact. He didn't remember bringing it. All the messages flashed up on the screen, stinging his eyes and causing them to water. Twenty messages from some girl named Haywood. Who was that? Why was it December 31st? How long was he out for? "Fuck." He rasped out, dropping his phone back onto his desk. His mind ached. Who the hell is Oliver? His name was De... Dee? Must've been it. He couldn't remember. He would have to find answers. A quick glance back at his phone. ------ Text from Oliver to Mrs. Haywood [i]Who is this?[/i]