Eden Catlett woke up after a long night of drinking, in some strange man’s bed, unaware of his name.

Or how they met.

Or anything from the previous night, really.

His head is pounding as he tries to figure out the lost hours, as well as trying to find where his clothes went. Eden's eyes move to the open curtains, the pink-orange light of the sunrise flooding in, worsening the pain that fills his head.

He turns over, face buried in the pillow, a soft scent, he isn’t sure what, fills his nostrils. He groans, the noise muffled.

Due to the pounding in his head, he decides fuck it and tries to wake up the other man next to him.

He tries. And tries and tries and tries.

No matter what he tries, it doesn’t work.

The man, whose name Eden does not remember, stays asleep. Or at least so he thinks.

It isn’t until Eden nearly fell over the man that he realized something was wrong.

He’s dead.

Eden has his hand over the poor man’s heart, on his chest. It isn’t beating.

There’s no movement, no heartbeat. No breath.

He is dead.

I am in a dead man’s bed.