Her knee slammed into the night table as she struggled to sit up. Outside, fog horns bellowed like beasts in search of their mates, while her bare foot brushed against the empty bottle of Jose Cuervo that had transported her from her own.
Her gaze fell upon the discarded heap of white satin. A swell of panic encased her in its grip: The pounding of the church organ, the suffocating scent of a thousand gardenias, the eyes—so many eyes—bearing down upon her every step.
From behind, she felt him stir, his arm slowly encircle her—like a noose.
Photo credit: swirlingthoughts