I can't quite remember, Just what guided me this way
~Unshaken, D'angelo

I find myself somewhere I never thought I'd be
~Nothing I've Ever Known, Bryan Adams

Her head was killing her, and she felt like she was going to be sick from the pain.

And, as her head cleared, she became painfully aware that she hadn't the faintest clue of where she was. It was far, far too hot to be her bedroom, where she could only just remember being last—her mind was swimming, memories of the last few days drifting passed in snatches, only the barest details clear, and she strained, trying to remember what she'd done last. She'd been in bed, she was sure of it, and even if the power had gone out there was no way it would be this hot, this dry, she'd been… reading? Yes, she was almost sure of it, she could feel the paper ghosting against her fingers, there and gone, though what book it had been she couldn't say.

Though she was Texas born, the heat that raged around her was nothing she'd felt before. Her back burned, and she panted to try and catch her breath, the air painfully dry, her mouth the same, and a fleeting, somewhat hysterical thought passed, that a scorpion could crawl into her mouth and make a home there and be happy, and if she wasn't careful a cactus's seeds would get on her tongue and take root and her frequent joke about her mouth being 'dry as the sahara' wouldn't be such a joke anymore.

'This is a dream.'

She thought, and surely it had to be. One didn't fall asleep reading on their soft bed in their air-conditioned room and wake up baking in the sun.

But she'd never had such a real dream before, though she had an imagination many would describe, politely, as 'creative', less politely 'over-active'. Never had any of her many dreams been half so real as this.

Ravens called overhead, and crows responded. Horses screamed not far away, hooves thundering hard and fast on the ground, something creaking after them—wagon wheels, maybe? was the only thing that made sense, that came to mind, even with her head still whirling, spinning and dancing, though she was slowly coming down to earth. Why the hell would there be horses and wagons in her bedroom though?

Then again, her bedroom didn't have sand either. There was red-hot sand against her stomach and, oh hell, was she naked? It burned against her skin, felt like thousands of tiny little coals, and either it had burned through her pajama-shirt or she wasn't wearing one altogether.

Finally, she opened her eyes ("Shiiiit," and closed them again, the light burning them harshly, before opening them again, slowly and more cautiously), and knew it was definitely no dream.

Brittle, dry grass stretched out before her for miles, still and unmoving with no breeze to stir it, speckled here and there with rocks, cacti, dead and dying trees reaching out like a dying man grabbing desperately for salvation. Massive brown blurs that she could only think were bison from their shape and size and those poke-y things that she thought were horns sizzled off in the distance, and there was some strange sort of deer grazing only a few yards from her, short and stocky, one of them with odd, thorn-like antlers. Pronghorns, she thought, vaguely hysterical, though she couldn't be sure considering she'd only ever seen them in video games and on Reddit a few times, and why she found that important she didn't know.

Well, she supposed, if you go to bed and then wake up sprawled out and, apparently, undressed or, at the least, half undressed, in the desert, you focus on strange things.

Dry grass crunched nearby in a rhythmic pattern, as though someone were walking on it, and she blinked slowly, groaning at the feeling of sand scraping against her eyes. Hell, she hadn't realized it was possible for her eyes to feel that dry, but apparently so, as they did. She licked her lips, and it felt weird, but considering how dry her everything felt it was expected, she supposed, considering that she was fairly certain she tasted blood from how the flesh of her tongue had cracked. Just turning her head hurt, pulse pounding in her skull, and tilting it back to look up was even worse, vertigo sending her whirling in a rush of twirls and spins, and she closed her eyes for a long moment before opening them at a rasping chuckle.

A man towered over her, ruffled and filthy. His hair gleamed with grease, matted and wavy in the way that hair only gets when it hasn't been washed in ages, a worn face—one that belonged on a man much older than he looked to be—pockmarked and scarred, his shirt torn and yellowed with old sweat, and he stank to top it all off, like days worth of body odor.

At the moment, though, he was the most beautiful person she'd ever seen.

"S'cuse me, mister, can… can you tell me where I am?" She attempted to stand, limbs stiff and joints popping, everything hurting, but she didn't even get her arms straightened out before they buckled and she went crashing to the ground, a strangled grunt forced from her throat from the impact.

A nasty grin twisted the man's face, baring what few teeth he had, rotted and yellowed, stained with nicotine and who-knows-what-else. "Well, what've we got here?" he slurred in a voice long ruined by cigarettes, and before she could react his hand shot out and grabbed her, fisting her hair and lifting her up by it, tearing a yelp of pain from her throat. It was a strange sound too, high-pitched and warped, but she didn't have the time or wherewithal to think on it as she tried to twist her head to look him in his watery brown eyes, bending her neck too far but it didn't hurt, came easily, gagging as she got a noseful of nicotine and alcohol.

"Ain't you scary lookin'?" he reached up with his free hand to scratch at his scraggly beard (she wouldn't be surprised to see lice or fleas in it), and she wondered if he was blind or simply as dumb as he looked. Her, scary? Sure. Barely over five feet tall, she didn't think she'd ever been called anything close to scary. "Got you some sharp teeth, I reckon."

Yep. Definitely dumb. Only sharp teeth she had were her canines, and they didn't really count considering she'd chipped one ages ago and the dentist had filed it blunt. "Fuckin' crazy asshole, lemme go!" he reached for her face, and she dug in her feet, tried to pull away—she didn't want those filthy, dirt covered, nicotine stained hands anywhere near her face, much less on her mouth —but the back of his hand struck her temple and she whimpered, going limp in his hold.

Her head throbbed, somehow, even worse than before, an ache settling behind her eyes as her stomach churned of the pain. She couldn't help but to open her mouth when he pressed his thumb against her lips, prying it open, and he hummed, running a foul-tasting finger along her teeth, must have been happy with what he found as he bared his teeth in that nasty grin of his, and she could only barely manage to ask "What… what do you want with me?"

Surely, nothing good.

He didn't respond, though, and she wondered if, in her dazed state, she had merely thought it, and instead adjusted his grip on her hair and began to pull, agonizing pain shooting down her spine. She whined, tried to dig in her feet, must have angered him or he must have gotten annoyed with her struggles, as he twisted, slamming his hand into her temple again, and she faded into blissful unconsciousness.