There was a wee bit of confusion on our end! We meant to post this prologue before chapter one! Sorry! I hope that there's no confusion! And I hope that you can all enjoy this prologue!! And we'll put up chapter two soonest!

Prologue

Three months after Mark's departure

God, it hurts to open my eyes. The pain starts in the back of my head and creeps forward. I don't know how it got there, the pain. I don't know where I am. For a minute, I don't know who I am. I just know that it hurts. I know that there's darkness.

I finally force them open. A shadow speckled with filtered light swims in my vision, pulsating, sending waves of distortion through my mind. Eventually, I make out small windows and boxes outlined by thin gray highlights. I guess it's a basement or a storeroom—dark and suffocating.

By now, my other senses have kicked in, even though they're secondary to the headache and the stifling pain in my ribs and limbs. I realize that I can't feel my hands. They're bound behind my back, and a tight, chafing sensation extends upwards from my wrists. My fingers are numb. I'm tied to a chair.

There's no air. I fight to draw breath, only to hear the harsh sound of a deep, rattling cough coming up through my chest. The acrid taste of blood fills my mouth. It smells like alcohol; alcohol and weed, mixed in with some unknown filth and decay.

Where the hell am I?

The ironic answer comes back to me: I'm in hell.

I try to focus, try to remember. I see abstract faces solidify into snatches of memory and try to put names to what I see. New York City. Washington. Life Café. Scarsdale. Mom. Cindy. Dad. Roger Davis, Maureen Johnson, Mark Cohen…

There. That's me, Mark Cohen. I've got it now, and the memories come back in a fast flood that makes the pounding pain fiercer. But I still don't remember how I got here—none of the memories tell me that. None of them correct the distortion and give this place a name.

In the middle of everything, a simple, idiotic question surfaces: Where's my camera?

A silhouette stirs. At first, it scares the shit out of me. The thin, dark figure pulls forward out of the boxes, and slanting sunlight illuminates half a dirty face, a single dark eye.

I test my voice. The first thing to come is a groan. I want to ask for help, but the man approaching me doesn't look like he has help in mind.

"Shit…" I mutter, my first commentary on the pain. "Where am I?"

"Hey, Mat," says an unwelcome voice. "Fucker's awake."

A distant, seated shadow murmurs in response.

The first man closes in, walking quickly, breathing smoke into my face. "So. I've got one question for you."

I try to focus. It doesn't work. Suddenly, I realize why: my glasses are gone. Everything is fuzzy and out of whack, and it's not just because of the pain.

His left hand flies up. I flinch, for all the good it would've done if he'd decided to hit me. But our skin doesn't make contact. Instead, he holds a dark, black, glinting object in front of my face.

So that's where my camera went.

"Where the hell is it?" he asks.

"What?" I manage, my voice still weak and warped.

This time, he does hit me. His right hand comes out of nowhere, balled into a fist, and strikes me so hard that my jaw pops and blood flies out of my mouth. I was already in pain; now it intensifies. It gets so bad that I want to collapse and pass out.

But I can't. The chair rocks, but doesn't fall over. I'm forced to stay upright.

"Where's your goddamn movie?! We went out, we looked everywhere around where we caught you after you fucking filmed us, and it's not in the damn camera! You weren't running from us that long, you skinny-ass piece of shit, so WHERE THE FUCK IS IT?!"

God help me, I still don't know what he's talking about.

"I don't know…I don't remember…"

He hits me again. This time, I can't hold on. I slip away into darkness, a pool of shadow and blood. The last thing I see is the twisted hallucination of his face. I see hatred and the ecstasy of power.

Then, I see nothing.