This is the first chapter and a half or so of a novel I'm writing. I'm just looking for some constructive critcism. Thanks for your help folks!

CHAPTER 1

Cameron wasn’t feeling well. It was an indescribable feeling, as if his life force were being altered. He didn’t really know exactly what he was feeling; he just knew something wasn’t right. He rose from the ratty mattress he kept on the floor, and crossed the clothes strewn floorboards to his kitchen sink. Steadying himself, he poured a glass of water and drank deeply. His head seemed to clear a little, and he went into his small, lime green bathroom. Looking in the mirror, he saw a sunken, sallow version of his usually tan face.
“What the hell is wrong with me?" he asked his reflection, half hoping to receive an answer. His head began to hurt with a dull, constant ache. It felt as though something was being etched onto his brain.
He pulled on the mirror to reveal his medicine cabinet. Grabbing a bottle of Aspirin, he tossed two into his mouth, and washed them down with a swallow of tap water. Feeling disoriented and dizzy, he left the bathroom and sat on the sole wicker chair in the middle of his Spartan bachelor apartment. Groaning, he put his head in his hands.
“This…aching….what…..arrrgh!....please…..make…..it….stop!" Cameron exclaimed aloud, hoping some cosmic Shaman would hear his pleas and ease his pain.
“I don’t…..arrgh!...my brain…feels….like…..it’s….ON FIRE!!!" he screamed, grabbing his head as it flared with a white hot pulsing. The pain was increasing to torturous levels.
Cameron’s head began to loll around, his neck hanging loosely and swinging about. He could no longer think coherently, and he felt panic rise from deep within his soul as he felt his sanity eroding while he was still conscious.
“What….no, YOU eat it…..daddy, I wanna go to the store….23 skidoo whatcha gonna do when you live in a shoe and its blue whooopitttidoooo" he muttered randomly. He was unable to make any sense of his own ranting, nor the source. The tiny little bit of his psyche that he still controlled was scared out of its wits. It knew this was not right.
Cameron could feel something welling deep within him, something that needed to bust out. He started slowly “Rigggg….RIGGGGIIIINNN…..RRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGGGIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNSSSSS" Cameron increased in volume until he was shouting at the top of his lungs. He leaped out of his chair, torn by some unseen force, and collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor, unconscious.

CHAPTER 2

A black boot, ringed with silver metal, greeted Cameron’s left eye as it opened slowly. Apprehensively, fearing a similar boot, he opened his right eye. His fears were realized and he was now staring at a pair of deep black metal rimmed boots. Unsure of his next move, he decided it would be pertinent to remain “unconscious" for a bit longer. He closed his eyes.
“I know you is awake Mon." came a rumble from above. The voice was low and powerful, with a heavy Jamaican accent, To Cameron it seemed a Rastafarian thunderclap within the storm of his thoughts.
Shit, thought Cameron, whoever they are knows that I’m awake. What the hell should I do?? I don’t have many alternatives, he decided.
“Okay, you’re right, I am awake." Cameron admitted tentatively, bracing for what he was sure would be a blow to the head or back. It never came. “I’m just going to get up now, VERY slowly, and make no sudden moves, if that is okay with you?" he finished, hoping that it was.
“Shit baiy, ya can get up quick and jump on toppa me if ya like," came the Jamaican thunderclap again, with a hint of amusement. “It won’t do ya a lick of good, mon."
Cameron slowly shifted to his hands and knees, gathering his jumbled thoughts. His eyes traveled up from the boots, along extremely long legs also clad in black with metal fringe, to a black, metal-rimmed belt complete with Skull&Bones as the centerpiece. This disconcerted Cameron, but he bravely rose to his feet, to stand face to chest with a behemoth of a Rastafarian. Cameron was not a short man, standing about 6’3, but the Rasta towered over him. The Rasta was easily one and one half of Cameron’s width, and he wore a black leather jacket with metal plates on the shoulders and sleeves, and metal studs along the forearms. His large face was dominated by a giant, smiling mouth, and a flat, wide nose that ran between two mischievous brown eyes. His wild dreadlocks were pulled back in a disheveled ponytail, and he had rings in both of his eyebrows. He was, in short, a very intimidating, very menacing Rastafarian, and he was standing in the middle of Cameron’s apartment.
“Okay, now….who are you?" Cameron asked the Rasta evenly, trying to sound calm.
“A little early for dat baiy, all in good time. In due time, all will be well. How bout dis baiy?? Who are YOU??" the Rasta asked with a sly grin on his face.
Cameron was taken aback, almost insulted, at the apparent ease and arrogance of this question. This guy comes into my house and asks me who I am? Feeling smug, Cameron scoffed and opened his mouth to answer. To his horror, nothing came out. His mind was completely blank. He couldn’t answer the question. Panicked, his eyes widened, and he threw himself back into the wicker chair. The violence of the action caused the legs to slip, unceremoniously dumping Cameron and the chair onto the floor. The Rasta boomed a good-natured laugh, and reached a black glove out to help Cameron up. Warily accepting, Cameron pulled himself to his feet, gathered the chair, and sat down much less violently. Not for the first time tonight, he groaned loudly and put his head in his hands.
“What is happening to me? How do I not know who I am?" he asked his hands.

That's all for the sample. Let me know what you think of the style, how I'm writing the dialogue for the Rasta, and anything else you can think of. Once again, thanks for all the help I MAY receive ;)

Sir Smittius