He groaned, grumbled, shuddered, and stretched out as he rolled around on the bed he occupied.  With a somewhat comical and unceremonious, mistimed roll, he ends up falling... right off the bed. The impact draws out a whining sound from him, and startles him into wakefulness, a brief adrenaline burst helping to push away the sleepiness.<br/><br/>But still, he was in a bit of a blur. He pulled himself up to his feet, and wiped at his bleary eyes. He stumbled his way over to the bathroom, intent on getting a shower and going to work. But it was once he was in the bathroom, and he saw himself in the mirror, that things started to click and fall into place.<br/><br/>This was not his bathroom. That was not his bedroom out there. This is not his apartment. So where in the hell is he, and why the hell is he here?<br/><br/>Christ. He looked around the bathroom, and turned on the sink. He splashed some cold water on his face, as if that might somehow help clear his mind of the remnants of tiredness, and help him to focus.<br/><br/>Maybe it had just gotten to be too much. All the stress, all the incessant thoughts, questions without answers, the job, the people... the fucking people he had to deal with all the damn times.  Idiots. Pigs. Losers.  Just thinking about them made his head hurt worse.  So he tried not to.<br/><br/>He wanders listlessly around until he finds a Small hand towel, which he soaks in cold water from the sink. He applies this to his forehead, where he feels the pain coming from, and hopes to god that it will do something. He never bothered with medicine of any sort.<br/><br/><em> Okay, think.</em>He thought to himself.<em>That damn bitch was cheating on me...and the boss was being an asshole like usual... and of course, nobody gives a damn about how my day goes, it's just "Hey, Alex, can you do this for me?" "Hey, Alex, I need help".</em>His thoughts drifted, to the despair he had felt, to the feeling of futility he had. Why bother with living? Their was shit worth living for. That's how he felt at the time. That's why he grabbed the gun, and...<br/><br/>But, he's alive. He stares at his head, and marvels at it. Their's not a single scratch on him. But what happened? Where was he? Perhaps, in his stress, he had snapped or something. Had a black out, and just up and left for God knows where.<br/><br/>He could drive himself crazy thinking of the reasons why. This seemed plausible, acceptable. Keeping one hand holding the cold cloth to his pain-filled head, he fumbled around in his pockets to check to make sure he had everything on him. His wallet was fine, filled with about twenty bucks in small bills, and his credit and debit cards, and ID, and everything else.  He had his tiny utility knife with him, dull and old, and kept more out of an unwillingness to let it go, rather than it actually still being of use. And an unused lighter with a fairy detail on it. He didn't smoke, and had no real use of it, but he had seen the cheap thing for a dollar at a gas station a few months back, and he really liked the design. Really, he was a bit of a pack rat.<br/><br/>He put everything back in his pocket, and then began scouring the room, looking for something, anything, that might give him an indication of where he was, or how he got there. A brochure, or a pamphlet, or some note written to himself... anything, something, in this room that could help him. Sure, he could just go out, ask the hotel owner about where he is, and other questions, but that would be... awkward at best.