jurassicjack

I needed a cigarette. I didn’t even know if I smoked or not, but I needed a fucking cigarette.

I explored the apartment – it proved to be surprisingly spacey. The bedroom I’d woken up in was directly attached to a walk-in closet and a ridiculously large bathroom. If one could make it down the hall without getting lost, you would find a living room/kitchen, and a TV that took up most of the wall it was placed on.

Everything about the apartment creeped me out. But it seemed too perfect to be a coincidence. I was supposed to be here, I knew that. The closet contained nothing by clothes my size. The refrigerator was full. Clearly, someone was meant to live here – and chances were that someone was me.

I had to get cigarettes. I needed cash to buy some, cash I wasn’t sure I had. But in the kitchen was a 10$ bill and a note: “For cigarettes”. I stared at the note for the better part of two minutes, until I grabbed it and the set of keys next to it, and stuffed it in the pocket of a pair of jeans I found in the closet. I ran down the stairs and onto the street – clearly in the higher end of town. I found a drug store, and as soon as the clerk saw me, he smiled and placed 20 Marlboro Red on the counter. I guess I did smoke. I nodded, grabbed a lighter, and lay down the bill. I contemplated asking him something like “Who am I?” but on second thought, that seemed creepy. I walked out of the store and lit a cigarette. I was not even remotely closer to who I am, but at least now I had smokes.