An excerpt:

“It’s The Cracked Cake Painting!” someone yelled, and they laughed. I didn’t know what they were talking about. “The Cracked Cake Painting” sounded so funny, but I understood the situation to be very, very unfunny. There was black goo all over the floor, and it could have been dye or ink, or paint. But I knew it to be blood. Black blood, all over the floor. Smeared all over the canvas. All over my hands. And Greg was standing in the doorway, hating me. Why couldn’t I remember the show? Why didn’t I know what was going on? Did anyone even care I was there? I was trapped in this little room, with Greg at the door, and a canvas smeared with dark colors in a room that otherwise was a dingy, gray broom closet, and I had black blood all over my hands and on the floor and in my hair…

And then I woke up.