Blackhill
The blood rushes to my head. "Where the hell am I?" The sentence rings in my ears as I look around. The damp, nicotine air fills my nostrils, making me gag. I try to sit up. A familiar discoloured pine tree dangles from the mirror in which I catch my reflection. "What the hell am I doing in my car?" "How did I get here?" "What the hell happened last night?" The questions are now coming thick and fast, and I can feel the bile rise in me. I just manage to open the door before spraying the watery contents on the gravel below. I gulp for air trying to push the nausea back down as my stomach muscles contract in defiance. Fuck, I feel rough. I lie there with my head hanging out the car door, contemplating my next move.
