Faceclaim (ONC 2022, Completed, Shortlisted)

2: Sleep Tight

The world flashed into existence again in a wave of nausea. Daniel turned violently to his right and puked the content of his belly into a bucket at the side of the bed.

It was very conveniently placed, he noted. But he hadn't placed it there.

In fact, he couldn't remember placing himself in this bed, or this room at all. He looked around at the white-painted walls, green thick curtain, and desk with notepad. It looked like any hotel room.

But it wasn't his hotel room. That much Daniel knew.

He scoured his brain for memories from the night before. He'd been at a bar. He'd had a beer. He'd talked to Tina. That far everything still was crystal clear. He'd had more beer. A lot of beer.

After that, all that he could recall was blinking lights and then darkness. Had he blacked out and hooked up with some hot guy? That could explain the strange hotel room.

"Hello?" he called out, hoping for a ripped man to come galloping from the bathroom. Because even when he was drunk, Daniel still had standards. At least that was his past experience.

No reply.

On shaky legs, and with the comforter wrapped around him like a cocoon--because his beet-ravaged body was shivering--he walked over toward the bathroom to check himself. No one was there. Only a run-of-the-mill hotel bathroom: bathtub/shower combo, small shampoo bottles and wrapped bar soap on the sink, and well-pressed white towels on a rack.

Jumping into a warm shower did seem tempting. Perhaps that would make him look sprier. Because a look into the bathroom mirror told him he'd seen better days. Eyes were sprinkled with red and his strawberry blond curls hung in tufts.

But first things first. Daniel needed to figure out where the hell he was and why.

Perhaps whoever he had followed to this room had popped out to smoke, or get breakfast before the hotel stopped serving it. Usually, Daniel always missed his complimentary breakfast, on account of making sleep a priority. But he realized that not everyone prioritized in the same way.

What time was it anyway? Daniel never wore a wristband but instead used his cellphone to tell time, like any proud millennial.

His cellphone hopefully still was in his pants, but where were his pants? He exited the bathroom and surveyed the floors for scattered clothes. If he had followed someone back here, surely their clothes would have been flung across the room before getting into the bed. But the room was remarkably clutter-free.

It wasn't until after about ten minutes of looking under the covers and below the bed--which by the way was a bad idea when your head was spinning--that Daniel found his clothes, neatly folded on a chair beside the desk.

This was a curious find, as Daniel never folded his clothes up before bed. A sense of unease lingered in the back of his mind as he pulled on his jeans, henley shirt--which was surprisingly beer stain-free, almost as if someone had washed it--and rolled-up socks.

The sense of unease intensified as he felt his pockets and found nothing. No phone. No wallet. Not even the keycard to his own hotel room.

This was when Daniel truly started to feel the panic bubble up in his chest. Something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

A hazy image appeared in his mind. A memory from the night before. A person with a dark hoodie approached him. But the rest was a blur.

The walls suddenly seemed to press in on him. He needed to get out of this room. Now. He could figure out what had happened later.

His sneakers waited by the door. Daniel quickly pulled them on and pressed down the door handle.

It was locked. He tried over and over to no avail. The door wouldn't open. Not even when he pressed his shoulder into it with all his might or kicked it with his feet.

"Help!" He called out as he thought he heard shuffling of feet outside. Surely, there were other hotel guests or staff out there who could help.

The door had just jammed and help would be there shortly. Everything would be alright.

At least that's what Daniel told himself as he slumped down on the floor, head falling down against his forearms. He would just wait there until help arrived, which would be any moment now.

A pinprick on his arm caught his attention. A small red dot against the pale skin right below his wrist.

Blurry neon lights flashed in his memory. The forgotten hours of the night before returned to him.

"I know what you need to do," a voice had told him. Then a sting on his arm and darkness. Mumbled voices around him. A cab ride. Empty hallways. A soft bed. The same voice again, whispering a goodnight message.

"Sleep tight, Prince Ramon," it had told him before lips were pressed to his forehead.