To be honest, I don't know if I want to do a story or a research paper. I lack creative writing skills, so a research paper seems so much less painful. But anyway, here's my attempt:
The last thing I remember is the glint of the light off the pipe. The glint had a peculiar coloring- bright white with a flash of red, which I can only assume to be residues of Jasmine's blood that remained on the pipe. Despite the blinding headache, I realize I need a new tie. I'll never be able to wash the blood stain off the once pristine white. I can't help but feel that I wasted forty bucks. And the life of that chick. But it wasn't like she wasn't asking for it.
I sluggishly get up; my eyes struggle to adjust to the resplendent translucent bulb that hangs from the ceiling. My bed hugs the corner of the room. To the left of the bed is the door. Besides that, there is nothing. The room screams desolation. Speckles of red paint dots the walls. The floor is littered with the red paint that's already peeled. A year ago, the wretched condition of this room would have really disgusted me. Thankfully, Jasmine opened my eyes to the depths of physical and moral degradation. Nothing, but lovely Jasmine, disgusts me now. It's surprising when things aren't like how they appear. It's even more surprising when they are exactly how they appear. What a wench.
My bed is surprisingly comfortable. A nice mattress layered with a comforter, a quilt, and a duvet with a cover. I must be in Jasmine's bed then. I wonder where she is. I clumsily stumble to the door. I guess the pipe really did mess me up a little. I reach for the knob and discover it to be unlocked, as usual. That's one of the overlooked advantages of dirty hovels located in an upperclass neighborhood. No one even considers robbing the disgusting shack. Too bad no one realizes that its full of blood money.