[color=2e3192][h1][center]Alison Fitzpatrick[/center][/h1][/color]
[color=2e3192][h2][center]Club Carousel, 2:41 AM[/center][/h2][/color]

Alison rubbed her forehead. “Emerald” had floated away as if she had never sat down on that bench next to her at all. She glanced down the street and saw no sign of the elusive dancer. The past few minutes had been a dream. That was the feeling this entire city had given her; not even a day had elapsed and Alison was already faced with the tedious task of separating dream from reality, if such a thing was even possible. Well, then. If she was going to wade around in this surreal landscape, she could at least enjoy it. That would wait for tomorrow. This thunderstorm had been an exhausting one; she’d lost every ounce of her energy and dignity by now, loitering on this damp bench. She stood and waltzed back into the side-entrance to the Carousel for the night.

Alison reached into her pocket and sifted for her key as she ascended the steps to the top floor of the Carousel. She was too tired to keep her head up, and instead let it loll against her chest as she hobbled toward her room. She reached out toward the door of apartment 15, pointing her key against the lock, until she realized that it was not necessary. The door was acutely opened, and it had not been done so organically. Shards of wood stuck out of the hinge and tiny rustic pieces of the door’s lock rested on the ground. It had been forced open.

Nervously, Alison shuffled into the apartment. She had already formulated a best-case-scenario – Julia (and/or) her boy-toy had locked themselves out and their drunken stupor had incited their primal instincts when it came to getting the door open. “…Julia?”

No answer. Alison began to shiver. If Julia wasn’t here, then they’d been robbed. “Julia? Are you here?”

[i]Nothing.[/i]

Alison turned on the light, which revealed itself to a lone, weak bulb dangling from the entryway to the living room. The television still produced faint jazz. A vast majority of the visibility was still owed to the natural lighting—if you could call it that—provided by the neon outside the windows. A sickening array of orange and red radiance plundered the living room, providing enough light for Alison to distinguish the silhouettes of the living room’s objects. A crumpled shape rested next to the couch – Alison must have thrown her blanket onto the ground before leaving.

Alison slowly made her way toward the couch when she realized that the shape was something else. She shoved the mass of fabric and it rolled over. The fabric was a dress. The shape it contained was a human. It wasn’t quite possible to measure the decibel of the screech she produced at that instant, but it could be heard by everyone within decent vicinity. A girl lifelessly rested inside – her roommate. Julia. The apartment’s fire iron rested on the ground next to Julia’s lifeless form. Alison bent down to observe her face. Part of it was gone; bone, skin, and all had been bashed-in.

It had to have been the man Julia had brought. He had spent the night with her. Alison sputtered around to find that another crumpled form rested on the other side of the couch, previously hidden by the television. A man’s corpse lay there, blood and brain coalesced into his wavy brown hair.

Alison was alone. It was best, and yet it was absolutely not. She screeched and sprinted out of the apartment. “Somebody! Help!”