05-15-2011, 03:43 AM
Private.
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There was dark, there was silence, and there was still. To be frank, there was nothing—nothing but the perfect emptiness of oblivion, or at least one might wish. It started to slip away after a while, though, like someone dragging up a sea monster from the depths of the oceans. He sympathized with that forsaken beast; he did not want to go back to the surface. It was bright, loud, and there was pain there. Here, there was none of that, but here he could not stay. Consciousness drug him out of that oblivion, and the illusion was shattered. Suddenly there was noise—harsh noise. There was the rumble and roar of the ocean pounding the shores, the distant cries of gulls, the howling of the wind. Suddenly the entire world was the beast, screaming and crying. His ears pinned against his skull. It was loud—too loud. It was bright, too. His dull orange eyes opened for only a second before being overwhelmed. The light seemed as physical as a sledgehammer, down upon his skull. Christ, his head hurt—like something hitting him from the outside and trying to get out from the inside all at once. The light and the noise did not help the migraine. He curled up tighter, wishing it would all leave him. He wanted none of it. He would trade the darkness for all this confusion, if so simply offered.
He waited—nothing. No offer from on high. Disappointing. Gradually the pain lessened (if not infinitesimally), and he was able to open his eyes into slits. What he saw offered no explanation. It was a beach—litus—and then the ocean—aequor. The words were accessible, and with their meanings, but he could make no sense of why he was at the beach. He could not make sense of his being anywhere at all, actually. For a stunning moment he realized why the darkness had seemed so inviting: there had been no reasoning to answer to. Here, there were the thoughts of who he was, why he was here. The words, their meaning, he had. Answers, he had not.
He stared for a long while, as if the answers would come from the winds across the shore, or arise from the waves themselves. Nothing. He growled—a sound as deep and ominous as a storm approaching. Though he was excessively loathe to do so, he bore the pain of his pounding head and shifted into what resembled a sitting position. Long legs crossed, the man put his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in the ark of his hands. Still his head hurt as if someone were standing beside him, continuously pounding him in the skull with a hammer—centered on his right temple. He touched that part of his cranium gently, withdrawing a paw to look—blankly—at the red that stained it. Blood, cruor. He was hurt. He knew nothing. There was a word for this, though not one he wanted to accept. As soon as he began to think he had lost memory, he would begin to panic. He needed to remain calm.
He stared at the blood on his hand for a long moment before turning his attention to the far more interesting iron shackle upon the same wrist. He looked to the other—there, as well. The links had been roughly broken. With a nervous swallow, he blinked and brought his bloodied hand to his neck. There, too; a wrought-iron band, several links of the chain still attached and ringing with a quiet clink in the breeze of the shore. What did this mean—had he been a slave, servus, who had clawed for an attempt to escape? How did that fit into him winding up here, with his aching head? He was not injured anywhere else; he did not think he had fallen. It was not accident.
Trying to remember only hurt more, so he gave up. Time was something he had, he supposed. Soon he would have to make a decision. For the moment, however, he once more put his head in his hands and fell into the dissonance of his beating heart and the throbs of pain across his wounded temple.
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There was dark, there was silence, and there was still. To be frank, there was nothing—nothing but the perfect emptiness of oblivion, or at least one might wish. It started to slip away after a while, though, like someone dragging up a sea monster from the depths of the oceans. He sympathized with that forsaken beast; he did not want to go back to the surface. It was bright, loud, and there was pain there. Here, there was none of that, but here he could not stay. Consciousness drug him out of that oblivion, and the illusion was shattered. Suddenly there was noise—harsh noise. There was the rumble and roar of the ocean pounding the shores, the distant cries of gulls, the howling of the wind. Suddenly the entire world was the beast, screaming and crying. His ears pinned against his skull. It was loud—too loud. It was bright, too. His dull orange eyes opened for only a second before being overwhelmed. The light seemed as physical as a sledgehammer, down upon his skull. Christ, his head hurt—like something hitting him from the outside and trying to get out from the inside all at once. The light and the noise did not help the migraine. He curled up tighter, wishing it would all leave him. He wanted none of it. He would trade the darkness for all this confusion, if so simply offered.
He waited—nothing. No offer from on high. Disappointing. Gradually the pain lessened (if not infinitesimally), and he was able to open his eyes into slits. What he saw offered no explanation. It was a beach—litus—and then the ocean—aequor. The words were accessible, and with their meanings, but he could make no sense of why he was at the beach. He could not make sense of his being anywhere at all, actually. For a stunning moment he realized why the darkness had seemed so inviting: there had been no reasoning to answer to. Here, there were the thoughts of who he was, why he was here. The words, their meaning, he had. Answers, he had not.
He stared for a long while, as if the answers would come from the winds across the shore, or arise from the waves themselves. Nothing. He growled—a sound as deep and ominous as a storm approaching. Though he was excessively loathe to do so, he bore the pain of his pounding head and shifted into what resembled a sitting position. Long legs crossed, the man put his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in the ark of his hands. Still his head hurt as if someone were standing beside him, continuously pounding him in the skull with a hammer—centered on his right temple. He touched that part of his cranium gently, withdrawing a paw to look—blankly—at the red that stained it. Blood, cruor. He was hurt. He knew nothing. There was a word for this, though not one he wanted to accept. As soon as he began to think he had lost memory, he would begin to panic. He needed to remain calm.
He stared at the blood on his hand for a long moment before turning his attention to the far more interesting iron shackle upon the same wrist. He looked to the other—there, as well. The links had been roughly broken. With a nervous swallow, he blinked and brought his bloodied hand to his neck. There, too; a wrought-iron band, several links of the chain still attached and ringing with a quiet clink in the breeze of the shore. What did this mean—had he been a slave, servus, who had clawed for an attempt to escape? How did that fit into him winding up here, with his aching head? He was not injured anywhere else; he did not think he had fallen. It was not accident.
Trying to remember only hurt more, so he gave up. Time was something he had, he supposed. Soon he would have to make a decision. For the moment, however, he once more put his head in his hands and fell into the dissonance of his beating heart and the throbs of pain across his wounded temple.