The bright light of morning rushed into my corneas as my eyelids cracked open, the blinding light breached the floodgates and wasted no time pouring in. Every cone cell that could be traced along my retinas began to burn the image of the light of 1000 suns into my view. The cosmic torture was all accompanied by a dull pounding in the center of my head, reminiscent of some pharmaceutical product come down.

Fuck me.

In response to the invading light and bombardment of discomfort, my brain began ordering my body to react and fight back against the imposing threats. Nerves all over my body were snapping with snippets of numb, and popping with kernels of pain as they carried out my brain’s orders. My muscles were in a state of paradox, stiff like timber, yet soft like jello. My movements were slow, and I couldn’t help but feel like I was in some sort of drug induced stupor, because my body felt....off.

I gave into the light’s desire for me to wake up, rolling over to look up at the poster I hung yesterday above my bed. Duval Defense. The sleek angular movements of the font of my grandfather slanted to the right, and were printed in a crisp ventablack ink on top of a thin sheet of gunmetal colored plastic.

I remember in highschool my guidance counselor saying some stupid motivational bullshit about seeing your dreams or goals first thing in the morning, makes it much more likely that you will accomplish the desired tasks. Being only a freshman when he told me that, I listened and plastered an original poster I designed above my bed. At first, I felt silly and dumb for being one of the few individuals that actually finds themselves heeding the advice of their counselor but; after a while, I found my very being becoming invigorated with purpose and drive each morning when I looked up at it. However, this morning I find myself being overwhelmed with the ventablack coloring, I had to close my eyes to lock out it's discomfort. Inplace of the usual vigour coursing through my loins, a building of pressure around my sinus begins to make its presence known.

“Good Morning Steelport, you are listening to The Commute. As usual, your host is I, Surge Lindenburg,” the faint static of Sergei’s AM radio polluted the morning peace I was so desperately hoping for.

Wait!? It’s morning? What the fuck!?

By listening past the radio’s program, I can make out a rhythm of dull thuds rapping against the wood of some furniture from Sergei’s space below me. My best guess is that Sergei is knee against his desk or our coffee table. Regardless, if he keeps at his current pace, whatever it is will have some sort of indention.

On top of that, Sergei was thumping with enough force to send some vibrations upwards into my bed frame. The rattling and shaking of wood and screws did nothing more than poke at my, already shot, nerves. After passing through my bed’s skeleton, Sergei’s waves invaded my body. The outside force had my muscles undulating in accordance with it’s own beat, kind of felt like what I would expect getting a massage from a high end massage parlor.

While alone the phenomenon was quite relaxing, the accompanying effects on my body were unbearable. The undulation of my muscles created an additional cycle of pressure compressing and decompressing my bones. When the pressure acted upon my bones, it completely consumed each and every single one within its grasp. Acting like a piston clamp, the more the pressure grew, the tighter it fastened itself to my bones, threatening me that at any moment my bones could snap. I don’t want to breathe or move any inch of my body’s fiber. Hell I shouldn’t even be thinking right now, what if the pressure decides to make my organs the targets instead of my bones.

The moment right before the pressure’s power climaxed, vaporizing my bones to dust, it reversed, decompressing and shooting all the built up pressure through my nerves. Sergei’s current rode through my body via my nerves, twisting and sprouting from my head to my toes. For a moment, I gave into the sensation, and found myself in a warm bubble bath after a lacrosse game. Fully relaxed and calm, my body wading without care in the water of the porcelain tub. The bubbles produced by the bath bomb I “borrowed” from my mom produced tiny pockets of air when submerged. As they rose to the surface to foam and release an aroma of rosey zen, I could feel them riding along my back and up the base of my neck, and bouncing off my skin walls as it made its way past my body’s crevices. The only difference between the sensation now, and of the post game bubble bath, is the painless needling shooting out all over my body. Sergei’s vibrations brought a whole sweatshop of seamstresses to weave needles through my body end to end, leaving no area untouched, and when it came to tying the knots of the fiber, they left them undone. I could feel them protruding from my body, standing firm against the outside world and resonating with Sergei’s vibes.

Just as soon as I felt these free fibers dance on the outside of my body, the return of the pressure on my bones began to build once more.

Here we go again.

“Does anyone remember what the world used to be like, before we found ourselves in the city of Steelport? You know, when there weren’t any abnormals running amuck, and the flag of the United States still waved as sovereignty over this land. I do, and I know I speak for everyone listening when I say I miss it dearly.” In response to Surge’s words, Sergei’s waves rhythm began accelerating, causing my pressure to build faster and faster.

The pressure followed suit, matching its new pace with, what I assume to be, some sort of malicious glee. It seeped its way into my muscles, gutting each of them like the fresh kill of a hunter’s trophy prey. What was once a minor nuisance buzzing around the center of my head began to expand like a balloon. My sinus throbbed and pulsed to Sergi’s tune, and at any moment I thought it was going to burst.

“If you are over the age of thirty, then you remember when they attacked. Th-” a subtle click indicating the twisting of the knob, ending Surge’s broadcast early and putting on something else in its wake.

“Good morning USP students and staff, happy Saturday morning! I’m your host, Java Joe, and you're listening to the University of Steelport’s very own morning show, Cup of Joe.” Something I dread more than anything in the world, amatuer radioshows. They are practically the same thing as podcasts, just not as pretentious but, everyone who has one thinks they are some titan of some ancient form of media. Jesus christ, shoot me now. As if on cue, the pressured build up held, instead of flowing out like last time, began to produce some auditory buzzing. In all honesty, I'd much rather listen to white noise than any more of this cup of bullshit, “It is currently 7:05 AM on this fine morning. Today’s date is June 6th. As for weather it is partly cloudy, but that will open up around noon, and you can expect bright skies for the rest of the day. For all of you pessimists out there who think I’m lying, and they think it’s going to rain all over their day’s itinerary, have I got some news for you. The show’s own inhouse meteorologist, Dylan, tells me there is only a five percent chance of there being any rain. If you want his full report, just head over to our website, www-”

The buzzing in my head was anchoring itself into my skull, rattling not only my brain but my sight as well. Even though my eyes were shut tight, I could feel my retinas and eyelids following the same rhythm as the rest of my body.

I would give anything to make Java Joe shut the fuck up right now!

“Now, let’s get into the news on campus. First off, welcome to the University of Steelport family freshmen. Now, Uncle Joe knows that being away from home can be a bit overwhelming and scary, but don’t worry there is no need to pass out,” Java Joe erupted into a fit of laughter, reminding me of the hyenas from that old animated movie about the lion becoming a king. He doesn’t have to finish his broadcast, he can choke on his laugh right now and I would be more entertained than I would be if I listened to the rest. I know he is referring to me, unless there was someone else who passed out in the auditorium.

“TURN IT OFF NOW!”

Did I say that?

The words were what I wanted to say, but the voice that said them wasn’t my own. It may have come out of my throat, but it was by no means my voice. It was primal, belonging to someone who was fighting for their survival, not some kid like me who just passed out. I may have almost died from embarrassment but, by no means was I fighting for my survival.

At this point, my sinus could no longer be inflated, and my body could no longer maintain the pressure’s torment. I knew that at any moment it was about to burst but, before it could, I managed to open my eyes once more to see the poster.

Duval Defense.

The last thing I saw before I returned to unconsciousness.