Chapter Text
You wake up.
It isn't pleasant.
There's a pounding in your head behind your eyes and through your skull like someone hammering in a railroad spike. You groan. Or, you think you do, anyways. With ears that pop, your hearing warbles as though underwater. There's something touching you. Face twisting, your eyes blearily open. The regret is instant, overbright saturated colors making your head scream in pain. Jaw working, your ears finally pop back into relative normalcy.
"-Can you hear me? Hello?"
That voice. You know that voice. You've heard it before.
You try to slowly work yourself back to... yourself. You can feel shaggy carpet under your fingers, rough and plastic. You're definitely fully clothed, so that's nice. At least you didn't fling yourself at some random guy to get over-
"Sunshine? Are you okay?"
That voice again.
You groan, opening your eyes slowly. Your vision swims before steadying, the blur of blue and red becoming solid. Your head is pounding and you grunt with the effort it takes to open your eyes. White ceiling. Popcorn. Gorgeous light blue hair framing a face that would be pretty damn good looking, if not for the clown make up. He's in pale blue pajama pants and a white sleep shirt, clearly ready for bed. The face grins brilliantly down at you and you close your eyes again with a grimace. Too bright.
"Good morning!" he calls loudly.
Instinctively, your hand slaps up over a mouth making startled noises. You clasp your hand around soft lips. You hope you didn't kiss this guy while you were blacked out drunk, which is what you're suspecting has happened. You'd like to have been able to remember what happened. Right now though, you just feel... wrong. Like you put on your clothes backwards.
"Not so loud," you grumble, hand sliding clumsily off his lips. Laying there on the carpet with a clown hovering over you is not the weirdest way you've woken up. "Where am I?" you ask, voice cloudy with cotton.
The voice comes again, softer now, something reverent in it. "You're in my living room. Are you okay? Does your head hurt?"
Instead of answering directly, you continue to lie with your eyes closed, just cracking one barely. The hot clown guy is staring down at you, worried, but undeniably pleased looking. Maybe you did fuck him last night, or he at least thought you were going to. There's no reason for him to be so pleased about a hungover bitch on his living room carpet. The chances weren't looking good for him if you continued to feel so nauseous. You might fuck a clown drunk, but hungover? Your standards skyrocket. There was, frankly, very little chance.
"Sunshine?" he asks.
"Am I dead yet?" you ask bluntly.
His eyes widen with worry, his pleased expression draining away. "No? At least, I don't think so".
Groaning, you bring your arm up over your eyes sluggishly. "Ugh... Okay, fine, damn it.".
Slowly, you work your way up into a sitting position. "Why the fuck am I in your living room?" you ask, voice rasping. You hiccup, palm slapping over your mouth as you vomit a little into your mouth. You force yourself to swallow the bile back down, unwilling to puke on a hot stranger's carpet.
"Just take it easy," the clown soothes. There's a hand on your back and you want it off. You shrug the hand away and fix him with a one-eyed glare, head still pounding railroad spikes. Shrugging your shoulder until his hand falls off you look around the room, taking in pale blue walls with soft tan carpet. It's a modest, but old fashioned room. There's a faded yellow corduroy couch, a wooden coffee table, there's a wall of built-in shelves with novels and VHS tapes filling them, knick-knacks speckling them. There's a large, dark purple reading chair in the corner with a lamp, and doors leading presumably to the rest of the house, and right in front of you is an old box television. It's definitely old, has to be, but it looks fairly well kept and almost new, with a VCR wired up under it. It's on, but on a black screen, a tape inside popped out with the film reel seemingly exploded out of it, with the scent of melted plastic in the air.
You turn your hard gaze back on the clown. "You're not answering me," you rasp with a cold glare, throat sour and pained with acid. "Did we fuck?"
The clown pulls back at that, startled. His cheeks flush, muting his red face paint on his cheeks somewhat. "W-What?"
You snort. "So, no, then". You glance around, vision getting clearer by the second. The nausea is abating a bit, letting you catch a breath, but the headache remains. "Look, whoever you are, I'll just go. Sorry for crashing on your carpet," you say, using the table to pull yourself up to stand.
"Wait! Please-" the clown pleads, catching your arms when you nearly topple over, a wave of dizziness hitting you. You flinch wobbling in his steady grip. Your teeth bare unconsciously, hissing air through your teeth.
"I said, don't touch me!" you snap, your whole body tense as a wire and bristling with the sudden spike of rage that fills you up hotly.
He flinches, worry and hurt clouding his pretty face. You immediately feel bad. The poor guy is just trying to help your sorry ass off his carpet and all you're doing is bitching at him for catching you when you fall. His hands hover over your shoulders as you straighten your leather jacket. "I... don't like being touched," you say, with less hostility this time.
The clown smiles a little wobbly thing, his dark eyes crinkling at the edges. "That's alright. I'm sorry, I just didn't want you to fall," he says softly. His lashes are long and dark like a doe's.
Now you really feel bad. Your insides kind of melt a little with his big doe eyes looking at you all sweet-like, so you let him lead you to the couch and give you a glass of water. You're taking little sips, eyeing him out of the corner of your eye as he sits down next to you, a good foot of distance between you. He's giving you a cautious smile, and you feel similarly. He doesn't look like he'd drug you but you don't know jack shit about this clown.
You set the barely touched glass down, licking your chapped lips. "So... Stop me if you've heard this one before, but, 'Who's this clown?'"
He tilts his head like a puppy. "I beg your pardon?"
You grimace. "What's your name, dude, you still haven't told me who you are".
Some sister of hurt flashes across his face but the clown hides it with a large smile. He seems happy enough. Your guts churn like it's full of centipedes. "I'm sorry, I never introduced myself! My name is Jack! Folks around here call me Sunny Day Jack!" He says energetically. "And you, friend? What's your name?"
You blink. Yeah, this guy is nuts, or at least so deep in his clown persona he forgot he was human. Not to say clowns aren't human, of course.
You tell him your name and he nods, saying it once to taste its flavor. You look around, frowning. You bring your arms up, stretching. Every joint you have seems to pop at once, lending you a bit of relaxation. The pops in your neck when your head turns are especially delightful. Opening your eyes, you take in Jack's mortified features. You nearly laugh but bite your tongue and relax back against the couch. "So... how did I get here? I didn't break into your house, did I?"
Jack does laugh at that and shakes his head, hands folding politely in his lap. "No, I don't think you broke in.".
"Why? You got really good locks or something?"
Jack smiles, something smug crawling over his face holding hands with a vague sense of amusement that gives you the impulse to hit him with your car. "I don't lock my door".
Your brows raise, then you immediately regret it when a spike of pain shooting through your skull. "That's a good way to get murdered. You already got a stranger in your house, randomly. That's probably how this shit happened".
The clown just smiles at you. "You're not a stranger, though. I know your name now!"
For some reason all of his chipper attitude bothers you. He's looking at you with starry eyes like a kid who finally got the puppy they begged their parents for. You look away, taking one last sip of water before standing back up. "Well, I'll get out of your hair. Sorry for the trouble," you mumble, taking a couple cautious steps toward a door. "Just tell me where the door is and I'll be on my way".
That seems to alarm him. "Oh no, you can't go out now! Wait until morning, the trains and the buses don't run so late. And it's dark out!"
You frown. "What fucking time is it?" Uncertainty brews in your gut.
Jack the clown looks at his watch, though not without a little bit of a disapproving look at how much you've been swearing. "It's 3:44am".
That can't be right. You feel almost sure that it was close to the time you had to go to work at... some point. You... You'd been trying to sober up, hadn't you? Mind aching, you tried to shuffle through your memories but they slipped away like smoke. You'd gotten sopping drunk, of that you're sure... did you go out? You must have at some point. You close your eyes, rubbing your brow. You can't remember leaving your house... You'd started drinking at home, of that you're sure. The last clear memory you'd had was pulling out that obnoxiously expensive scotch Ian bought when you'd still been together as a pride gift to himself, and pouring yourself a drink. After that...
After that...
Your mouth tastes like metallic electricity.
You open your bleary eyes, feeling some impending sense of happening. Your eyes dart down to where Jack's hand hovers over yours at your side. Looking up to his face, you meet his gaze with a glare. He gives you an apologetic smile and neatly pulls his hand back to his lap. See? I'm not doing what I know bothers you, just like you told me. I am not an enemy, he seems to say, looking into your eyes with earnest comradery.
"You can stay the night," he says gently. "I can drive you to the bus stop or the train station in the morning".
There's a firmness in his voice you usually hear from overly affectionate grandmothers that feel like everyone is their grandkid. The overwhelming desire to be polite and go above and beyond to make some random person feel special. You wish you had the luxury.
"I really couldn't," you say firmly, not exactly excited to be out on the street at 3am, but what are you supposed to do? You can't stay here, imposing on this overly friendly clown man. If he's got bad intentions, you shouldn't be around him. If he's got good intentions, then he shouldn't be around you. It's a no win scenario for anyone here.
"I insist!" He says with a big smile, eyes big and hopeful. "I have a guest room with a bed that's much more comfortable than the floor. I'd be the shame of the town if I shoved you out into the cold!" He says with firm hospitality.
"Look, that's really nice of you, but I don't fucking know you, no offense. I'd really rather get home". Your voice is cold and strained.
You both stare at each other a moment, his face worried and put down while you feel your headache coming back. Bad becomes worse and your vision swims, guts churning in protest.
"Fuck," you say faintly.
"Sunshine?"
"Where's the fucking trash?!" You gurgle with urgency. Jack seems to recognize something in your face and pales, helping you through a door into a bathroom. Focusing hard to keep yourself restrained, you stumble with your mouth drooling as destiny crawls up your throat with acidic fingers. You make for the toilet like it's the last one in the world, falling to your knees with a crack you barely feel. Falling forward, you retch.
That expensive scotch didn't taste that great the first time, but it tasted even worse a second time around. You must have been trying to sober up at some point too, because that's definitely a BLT and coffee you're tasting too.
When you come back to yourself, there's a hand in your hair, pulling it back and out of the danger zone of your mouth. You cough, picking your head up a moment, wheezing. A faint reflection of yourself stares back at you, mostly just an outline in the white of the porcelain lid.
"Shhh... That's it, Sunshine, you're okay... Let it all out..." the clown says soothingly. "I'm just holding your hair, okay? Can I rub your back?"
Fuck it. You're weak. You crumple into his hands like a wet paper towel with a miserable nod, hungover and soggy like a stray cat caught in the rain. Through the leather of your jacket you feel the vague shape of a hand rub your back comfortingly. Acid stings your throat raw as you take gulping breaths. Quickly, your vision starts to swim again and you lean down in desperate prayer, breathing in the smell of cold, stale water. Jack's large hand adjusts, gathering your hair back in his hand. Your face numbs as you purge again, thankfully mostly liquid this time. Hands clutching the edge of the toilet, you can't help but want to cry. You don't.
Finally, the waves cease for a moment, nausea abating. You fall backward into a sit, leaning your head against the cool tile of the wall, panting with effort. Jack's hands leave you and you can feel him watching. For a moment, all is quiet until you hear him murmur your name. One of your eyes cracks open as you breathe heavily, a glass of water held in front of your face. You take it with weak, grateful hands and sip, no longer bothering with the notion of him drugging you. If he wanted you out cold, he'd have bashed your head against the tile while you were bent over and he had a hand in your hair.
"Thanks," you mutter, closing your eyes and trying to count your breaths back, taking in the cool water.
"You aren't well," Jack says with that sweet, insistent tone again. "Please. I can't stop you if you want to leave but... I really think it would be best if you rested for tonight, Sunshine. Going out on your own when you're in such bad shape will only make things worse. Relying on your friends is how you make it through difficult situations, especially when they want to help you".
Looks like you're staying, at least for a couple hours.
"Fine," you grunt, somewhat fed up with his overly sweet preaching. He smiles down at you, looking very much like the cat that got the canary.
Eventually, Jack helps you into a stand, holding your elbow with care as he leads you to a guest room, painted a buttery, pale yellow. There's a quilt atop a queen bed with natural wood furniture; a bedside table, dresser, and a desk in the corner with a lamp on it. There's a couple windows, one framed by a shrub of some kind. It's too dark to see much else, but you think you see a street lamp outside. You fall on top of it, not bothering to get under. You don't want to bother with them now. Jack allows it and comes by a moment later with a small trash can for in case you feel nauseous again.
"Sleep well, Sunshine. Things will seem better in the morning; you'll see," he says encouragingly, his figure a silhouette in the light of the outside room. It disappears with the light, his hand a shadow that closes the door.
Closing your eyes, you pass out. At least, you think you do, a couple times anyways, but every time you wake it feels like you've only blinked before the need to vomit again rears its ugly head. You take a drink of water every time, only to vomit it up who knows how long later. You pray to a different god every time for you to never drink again.
Time doesn't seem real until once you blink your eyes and you can see a little better. Pale light has started to filter through the sheer curtains, revealing flowers embroidered in them. Stomach a little more settled, but still painful with all the vomiting, you sit up, slamming back the last little bit of water. Glad to be sober, you slowly shuffle out of bed. Maybe you can slip out before your clownish host wakes back up. Guilt gnaws at your gut at how unfriendly you'd been to him when you'd first woken up; the guy had been nothing but kind to you, letting you stay despite the carnage you'd left in his bathroom. Whatever his motives may have been, you owed him. The best repayment you could think of was getting out of his hair, and maybe cleaning his bathroom a bit.
Using a cleaning wipe, you give his counter and toilet a once over clean, washing your hands after. It's not a deep clean, but it's at least a little nicer than it was before, so you're sure he'll appreciate it. After helping yourself to a bit of mouthwash, you slowly navigate the house. Steps socked and silent, shoes missing. You say a little prayer that they're by the door, or you'll find them under an open window somewhere. Still with no recognition of the house you supposedly broke into, you creep down hallways of color.
You freeze, spotting a shadowy figure moving at the end of a hallway. You open your mouth to call out, then pause. Slowly, you raise your right hand. The figure raises its left. Mirror. A funhouse mirror, you realize with exasperation as you get closer. What a fucking weirdo. Who the hell would buy one of these things? It's not a fucking Ray Bradbury story, Jesus. You can respect a commit to the bit, but this is a bit too much for you. You creep past it, embarrassed and irritated with your fear instinct and continue your search of the house. Finally, you make your way into the kitchen with old fashioned appliances. Pastel fridge that was popular in the 70s and 80s, old stove, and a clock that looks like a cat with clown makeup too that tells you that it is now almost 5am. That leads into a dining room that leads to a mudroom that leads to, at last, what looks like a front and back door.
Alas, no shoes of yours did you find.
Well, you know how to avoid broken glass for the most part, and at least you've still got your socks. It'll be a cold walk home in the winter, but at least it's something.
You slowly turn the door handle of the front door, opening it quietly to reveal a suburb.
A suburb?
You lived in an apartment. In the city .
A warm breeze brushed your hair from your face, flowers blooming in planters by the front door and in hanging baskets that dangle from the porch roof.
Petunias.
A perennial that grows in warm months.
There were birds chirping, birds that should have flown south for the winter or hibernating. It should have been silent, save for cars.
Your stomach twists like a snake, and this time it's not with hungover nausea. Doubt creeps in as you fumble with your jacket's zipper pocket, pulling out your phone. Pressing the button to turn it on, you reveal your wallpaper and more importantly, your phone's clock.
4:21 in the afternoon. Nine whole hours of difference.
It was impossible. Your phone had to be broken, or got set to the wrong time accidentally. Maybe you turned your location off, drunkenly trying to "hack" your phone so you could play a eroge for free or something as long as it registered you in a different country; it wouldn't have been the first time you'd done that. But you had no service, no bars, not even SOS. There was exactly nothing . Even if you were in the middle of the fucking desert you should have had something . Opening the phone with shaking fingers, you stand on the porch with the door open behind you, frantically trying to open your map application.
The map is blank.
All you get is a blank, black grid with your little blue dot and an infinitely spinning wheel of doom. You try your rideshare app too and get something similar; an error code. Your battery is half empty.
Ice starts to settle in your stomach as you look up, staring out at the waking world as the sun slowly crawls over the horizon, lighting up the sky with pale orange, yellows, and blues. Clouds stained pink drift across the sky with ease as a pair of cardinals flirt in a small hedge out front. The houses seem clean, with manicured lawns with ornaments that haven't been stolen or trashed, even a pink lawn flamingo in one. There's no trash on the side of the road, no dead animals, no pollutive smell. The trees are green and healthy, flowers blooming in the sun as it starts to warm the earth with morning.
Where the fuck were you?