It smells in here.
Your head hurt. Half of your face is wet. Your nose sucks in air and quickly wilts, at the sweet and sour and alcoholic smells that assault your innocent organ. Bile rises from your throat, your jaw automatically clenches and you hold on your groan, because puking while you're still vertical sounds like an amazingly bad idea.
First thing first: eyes. You need to open them. So you do, and instantly regret it. Light pierces through your skull, sending jolt of pain at the back of your eyes. You put your hand over your eyes, groans, and pushes yourself on the floor. It's sticky. Your hand is sticky.
Headache abated, you opens your eyes, and still regret it. This room is a mess. The walls are stained yellow. The curtain is fallen apart. There's a big pile of empty, plastic bottles on the bed, in multitude of shapes. You take a deep breath, winces at the smell, and leans against the nearby wall, your naked breasts moves slowly in time with your breath. The kitchen portion is only slightly better - wrapping papers, rotten banana leaves, smoldering bones. A portable induction burner sit on the table, untouched and unplugged.
You tentatively take one of the bottle. It's still quarter-filled; a white, milky liquid inside. You unscrew the blue cap, take a smell, and hit with the sweet and sour scent of tuak. With little thought, you take a swig and exhales. Fuck. It's too sweet. Not done fermenting.
You wipes your face, the wet half - it's slimy and disgusting and you try very hard not to touch your hair, because it'll be a pain to clean. Instead, you ambled to the bathroom. It's only separated by a curtain, so you move it away and-
... it's clean, surprisingly. Blue tiles, white paint; a small sink with mirror, a toilet, a cistern under one of the faucet. The other faucet is closer to the door, beside the sink - no doubt for prayer purpose.
There's a card on sink. You snatches it, it's blue. A national ID card.
A male national ID card? You looked at it, unsure. "Agung Sri Wahono?" you says the name. Your voice is scratchy, but not too bad. It's familiar, yet don't belong to you. Whoever he is, he was born in twenty-twenty. What does that year signify? Something unpleasant, you think. And what's current year anyway? And what do you know? What do you not know?
More than you should.
You stare at the mirror. You look... well, about what's expected, really. You'll get decent chance to win audition for being Japanese horror monster.
So, first: time to dress-up.
What do you find?
[ ] A set of school uniform: There were white, and spotless, once. Now they're stained and smell strongly of alcohol. The skirt is long, to the ankle, but quite roomy.
[ ] A set of bureaucrat uniform: Tanned, starched, with mystifying symbol of government woven on the breast pocket. It has a lot more crease, now. And will need thorough wash. But it does have pocket, including on the skirt.
[ ] A set of bunny suit: Black. Shiny. With ears. Do you really want to wear this? Are you sure? You'll looks just like deranged serial killer, you know.
Outside, between the sound of wave crashing, you hear a faint step, walking toward your place.
