Thread: Apostles of a Paradigm Shift (Language) (7,912 Words)

Okay, Here goes nothing!

First posting on this forum, but I've been acquainted to various writing forums in the past. Long story short i'm always looking for insight into my works of prose. I've been drafting, editing and rewriting this story for about five years now, which has been since I was about 12. It started as a choppy, ugly work of morbid fiction and now I hope to have shaved it into a artistic creation, and i certainly hope this shows as you read it. Nonetheless I like to hear insight as I progress with it.

Since it is already rather large (The first chapter is already around 6,000 words) I apologize in advance, but I am going to ensure paragraph spacing / formatting for as convenient a read as possible. I can provide .docs to anyone who just can't be bothered with V bulletin's formatting though! Just let me know.

As a disclaimer, the grammar is not perfect, and will be revisited with the help of others once the entire work is finished. Nontheless I accept any and all criticism and will take all insight - good or bad.

Also, you may hate it, but it's a First-Person Stream of Consciousness novel.

Last but not least, enjoy.




TITLE: The Apostles of a Paradigm (Shift).

By, J.S.

I.

I used to be afraid of a lot of things out there. Out there, beyond the horizon, where which the Earth would continue to spin and we would never see it. It was something that’d make my body shiver, a chill running from my spine to my toes. I had always wondered what would lie beyond the horizons, but as the sun would set down, my cowardice would set in.

I used to be afraid of shadows. Those dark, creeping objects would slowly walk behind me, as if ominously waiting for something to happen. They’d never leave my sight, rather only change in shape and size. Sometimes they were so small; I could barely see their trail. Other times, I could witness nothing but the dark figures all around me.

Speaking of the darkness, I used to be afraid of it far more than anything else. Like the shadows, it constantly beckoned over my shadow, ominously repeating the same story, over and over. No matter when the daylight would arrive, one thing would be certain, and that was the darkness that would soon take its place. By far, nothing is more fear-ensnaring then those deep, hollow colors that the darkness was composed of. It creates all the things I am afraid of. The shadows are but servants of darkness, the unknown the place they call home.

These were but a few of the things that scared me. They were morbid, slowly rubbing death against my chin as I stared at them upon the face. Many times, I’d flinch, or slam shut my eyes, unable to bear and witness them. But now, it is different. I feel like a new man, converted by the events that the Apostles had shown me, the events that had forever changed me, the events that took place stories below, in both the thick of the dirt, and the thick of the darkness.

Fear was such a commonplace thing then. It seemed around the corner was the reaper himself, scythe at the ready, and beckoning me to come closer. There were a lot of things to be afraid of then - things like shadows, and the dark. Time teaches you to save fear for things that truly matter. I think I’ve come to realize how little there is to be afraid of, thanks to time, and the Apostles.

The beginning of it all was abrupt. As the clocks struck midnight around the world, a new age was born. That age began with stars bearing stripes – which then became filled with crimson red liquor - and we were all very afraid. As we hid underground, the heroes went off to war. We cowards never deserved to live, and we bore this thought for the rest of our lives. As we came out of our holes, we saw the shadows - the same ones that seemed so real before. But down there, we had learned something, and it had grown, developed, and converted us. What once was an emotion of fear to shadows soon became indifference to them; and who was it to blame, or to thank for the consequences?

The world I have come from, both from here upon the ruins that I now stand upon and deep in the underground, has taught me to fear but one thing. And that thing we must fear is one another.

*


My lungs shook, exasperated and begging for air. The noise had alarmed a figure nearby; a shrouded, gray, monotone figure that bore into me with strange eyes. It was hazy in view, and difficult to see in the cloudy mist that was my vision. The eyes continued to stare, wisps of something, perhaps hair, latching against the edges of my face. Though the body seemed so emotionless, a fire erupted in the eyes, and they shook with remorse. I felt the tingle of a finger latching against my own, mumbled vibrations shaking the air as it called out, perhaps to alert another one of its kind. At first, a shrill of fear had overcome me, and the lungs continued to beg for peace and an end to it all. Pain struck me like a wave, and my whole body wanted to move, and shake off the sharp stings all around. However, as the finger had latched on, slowly clasping against my own, my body began to calm. Though relief was far from it, the pain weakened and brought some stability to my rapid and irregular breathing. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt a finger touch my skin, and I couldn’t even place the emotion.

Holes were shaking at the creature’s face. I couldn’t tell what they were, as masks covered them, but I was certain they were openings for which movement drew. They were darker spots on the masks, viewable as they danced to themselves, but seemed to look on, like the eyes, with a sense of fear and worry. The figure jumped, flashing beside me a moment later, tugging and poking at my arm in a bothersome manner. It would have been painful, but my body still remained stapled down by the other sharp pains which stabbed me and restrained me and held me back. Something pricked my elbow, and I felt some sort of object being placed against there. The limb was no longer painful but certainly tense.

It let my arm go limp once more, nodding to the figure nearby. By now, things had grown blurry and even more indecipherable than before. But before I could react my breathing had become timid, and shallowness began to feel present. Whatever the being had done, it began to encompass the remainder of my body. A numb feeling came upon these toes and legs I called my own, removing the pain that lay there prior. It was not long before my vision had failed me once more, and I fell into darkness.

The dreams were vague; dark, cloudy, and difficult to decipher. Shadowy beings moved around me, examining me like some prime cut. They stood around, faceless and gray, constantly attempting to tenderize my flesh and slowly shred it into a more digestible form.. At other times, I’d be floating, emptiness all around with no care for gravity or physics. Dreams like these remained fresh in my mind, as they never seemed to cease relenting me. As opaque as they were, at least it were something to witness, something aside from the darkness.

It remained like this for some time. In a rhythmic fashion I could at times feel the onset of the hyperventilation, and the necessity of that magical bag of dreams & numbness. The shadowy figures never seemed too different either. Sometimes one of the beings had glasses, thick, obvious, yet distorted shadows upon the face. Though they seemed to add a unique shade of gray to the being’s already shallow and colorless identity, those dark holes still remained ever visible beyond them. At random moments in the painful consciousness, the long haired being would also arrive. It too, like the other glass-bearing one, had a constant dreary, monotone look about, concealed by the misty view and lack of clarity. However, something seemed so different, so irregular that I could nearly shout it aloud. But When I tried to speak, all that’d occur is an off tone silence. It – no – she was different. She had the long, crisp tufts of hair, when everything else was so silent and dark. She also bore a hue, something that brought, miraculously, color into the vision. Something was different about her, and I could always tell her from the other almost instantaneously. Though both were a pleasant sight from moments of darkness, she was the better welcomed in my mind. The other, by deduction, must have been a he. Though before I could speak, shout scream, the pain became overwhelming – then numb – the nothing.

It kept up like this, an agonizing cycle of pain, pleasure, relief, darkness, death, and rebirth. It was a mental trauma, agonizing from the very moment I could remember it beginning, to the moment it had ended. In limbo, within a purgatory of raw emotion, I awaited to be set free. That moment came on a fateful evening not very long ago. I don’t remember much of the few moments I had begun to regain my consciousness, but I knew it were different from all the ones before it. A glass wall had been wiped clean of debris, and the first signs of vision, though blurry at first, quickly converted into vividly translucent pictures.

White.

A quivering lip of my possession showed the first signs of life. In what seemed eons since I had befallen this state of unloving, my heart had begun to sprint. Eyes moved beneath their lids, and breaths grew less and less shallow. These subtle signs brought excitement to those around me, for those who could see moved toward me with great haste, concern, and interest. I could feel the room spin into an orderly design, conceiving color, depth, and a magnitude of senses to give it some sense of reality.

The checkered linoleum floor was aged; though no dust accumulated on its surface. It held a clear lack of maintenance akin to that of the more poorly kept facilities in the world, and wax had not been applied for some time and a multitude of scuffs were abundant, streaking like scars against the surface. It seemed the floor was not cleaned properly either, for some sort of substitute chemicals had left the faces of the tiles washed out, the black checkers slowly beginning to fade and bleed white. The ceiling had a solid, stone cold look to it, crafted from cement now decades in age and recently colored in a thin white hue as a weak attempt to match the floor.

Though it was an attempt at matching, it instead left this transparency against it, the deep gray still visible from the ghost-like sheets that covered it. The walls too had this same identity, adding to the sense of haste all around, only furthered by those moving so quickly about me, raw emotion beginning to envelope.
The smells too had given me a newfound sense of reaching reality. The strong, pungent stench of alcohol lingered, especially about my body all across the garments I wore. With it also came stenches of sterilized cloths and tools, all burning against the follicles of my nostrils. When I tried to associate the burn with some name – all that came were robotic, scientific ones. Sodium Hydroxide and Sodium Hypochlorite seemed the most familiar, yet no emotion drew from their sound. However, no other true aroma came from the room. Everything was drenched in the chemicals as it seemed almost everything, even the people, had become layered with the potent, corrosive molecules over some time.


My physical occupancy came within a tough, metallic frame cot, layered with bedding at a vain attempt to make it comfortable. My body appeared to make it sink, as the bedding gave way to my build over my duration of being within it. The room had another cot, but it lacked a body, nor imprint within it. Perhaps they were somewhere else, taking a break from the sterility of the facility. Perhaps they were out getting a fresh breeze or some other task that let them remain mobile. Perhaps there was no one at all – though that’d be unlikely. Hospitals strictly require two patients to a room, why’d they make an exception in my case?


The rest of the room still seemed to be composed in some sort of phased blur – halfway between focus and invisibility. Though I could see strange bottles and items of all kinds scattered all about me, everything beyond it began to mold into an off-white shadow. Nothing stood out, and it made my corneas struggle to adjust and identify what else were around. I could see the hollowed edges of two windows, each of opposite ends of the room – though they could have been doors. Nothing else could really be identified, not that there seemed much else to identify aside from the white shadows, myriad of items, and figures quickly approaching.


At first, the hovering object – a congealment of matter - seemed formless, shifting in my vision as I blinked away the tears that obscured my vision. My eyes took time to adjust to a blinding light that penetrated from the being’s hand, which came and went at its own pleasure. After a few moments, the body took form, no longer shaking and moving about. The body viewed me with care and caution, now constructed with masculine features that grew from the matter that once stood where he was. He stood stoic and tall, hovering over me as he toyed with hairs that emitted from his chin. Though indeed a man, his body appeared thin and stick-like, the white lab coat oversized and hanging low from his narrow and seemingly hollow shoulders. The facial complexion was still distant, only a few blurry lines of wrinkle able to be composed aside from the three holes that were arranged accurately around his center. The bottom one seemed to mumble, I still unable to decipher what was protruding from them.


After looking at me squarely for some time, he began to touch me. He began to move his hands all over, head to toe, searching for something that I did or did not have. He first went for my left arm, bringing about an obvious jolt from it as I swung it away from him. It was the first time I could even recall moving my arm before. At first startled, the hand moved closer with curiosity, my body in all shaking ever so slightly with ever impression he made against me. For most of my limbs and parts, I responded with the same jolt or shake. But up against my left leg, and at certain points along my skull, I had a very different feeling. It didn’t feel as much as a jolt or shake of excitement, rather an ever so miniscule tingle, halfway between please and pain and stuck somewhere between hot and cold. The cold sharp tacks that my nerves made elsewhere I became used to, but the tingling I did not. No matter how many times he continued testing those two parts, I couldn’t let go of that tingling; let go of the halfway-pain.


Now that I think about it, I don’t ever recall such a feeling ever to emanate across my carcass. Now that I ponder it, I don’t recall it much at all. Sharp, clear, conscious thoughts now seemed jumbled, if not lost. I couldn’t recalculate, concentrate, compose the proper images of a memory I once possessed. To me, it all was nothing more than a myriad of shredded images, with what felt no way to reconstruct. However, the present remained clear and precise - the events within this complex appearing in my mind with a satisfactory amount of clarity. I couldn’t grasp why or how this were the case. As I pondered, the figure built itself before me, my vision had nearly restored itself and they began to bring forth clarity, translucence to the opaque wall that had been surrounding me for some time.


The individual before me my eyes had focused upon, little attention being spent toward the small objects surrounding him and about the room. The man that had appeared stood tall, hunching over at a slight, thirty degree angle as he carefully observed me, no longer touching me as I slowly began to regain consciousness. Instead of wielding thumbs and forefingers of mass invasion, he bore a tool of scripture. A pencil jotted against a clipboard in his arms as he went about describing my very movements, down to the very flash of the eyelids on a specific chronicle. Something must had been important about me, for the pencil danced with a heightened pace of fury as he shot for the other end of the page in great haste. I wondered if he could even read the notes with how the object spun so quickly in his hands.


The rest of him seemed, at best, average. His skin at certain edges had begun to wrinkle, and shrivel into their lower layers, begging to be protected as they creased against his bone and muscle. The majority of the wrinkling had begun to show around the knuckles and the eyelids, where other parts of his face and hands had begun to show the typical signs of significant decay. He seemed mentally predisposed, something on his thoughts, even as his eyes directed full attention against me. It was a rather strange feeling, to be watched with keen eyes, yet not felt in view. Perhaps it’s like watching a camera take a picture with no one behind to press the button, and make everything click; perhaps it’s like watching someone lost in their own mind, unable to climb out and perceive the present - as an entity separate from the fantasies. Either way, I couldn’t sense anything but the pensive emotion and whirling pencil as he watched me carefully.


As he continued jotting, a shriek came from across the room. A weak, rusty door had made an echoing roar of announcement, for a being stepped inside, clipboard and lab coat as well in possession, but lacking the writing utensil or action of highly paced writing. The lips moved and some murmurs erupted as the two greeted: A casual wave for the girl, and subtle, almost unnoticeable, nod by the man. At first, she walked about aimlessly; at least until she saw my head jolt a bit. After that, I heard a shriek, as the sneakers dashed toward me.


She tugged against the coat, giving the ability to see beneath the superficially bleached surface a sign of tone and skin around her neck and arms. She approached with caution and care, though in a manner much unlike to the man beside her. A ember emitted from her chest, a warmth enveloping around me as a quiet smile worked its way into her lips. A warm hand pressed itself against my forehead as her awed and flushed lips pressed together, pensive in thoughts different to the man beside her. I could just tell from the raw emotion emanating from the two of them that the man seemed deep in the statistics, the medical values, resources, concepts, theories and applications. The newly arriving woman seemed so much different, filled with so much grace. Her heart I too could hear beat, just as I moved slightly off rhythm, in some sort of circadian rhythm of its own. I felt a wave of relief, seeing the first human I could ever recall in my life embrace me with compassion and care, even though we were likely complete strangers.


“Unbelievable.” He murmured. He seemed careful with his words, as if being watched, or perhaps judged. “This is...” It appeared the man could not conjure the words to display his emotion, and instead he quietly attached the stethoscope to his body, protruding it from the ears as he placed its cold metal receiver over my chest, crudely measuring my heart rate. At this point, I didn’t know how to react. To him I felt like a specimen, as if the rat he had picked up from the street woke up on him mid operation, and now he didn’t know what to do. I felt as if I was letting him down; though in what I had yet to actually understand. Instead, the moment of silence, sharply smacking against my rapidly beating heart, was all that we kept between us.


The man had now removed the receiving end, nodding to the girl with a brown head of hair beside him. He looked so stoic – so cold on the exterior, that I didn’t expect the next words to come from his lips.


“Just…. Remarkable!” he exclaimed, hands fidgeting beside his hips as crossed them together to prevent them from shaking profusely. It seemed that all of his work – his perhaps months of effort – have come together at this very point in time. He bowed his head toward me, as I could barely lift my own. With just a hint of light refracting from the linoleum flooring, I could catch a trickle of bodily fluid draining from his eye, his body beginning to convulse with sheer joy. The girl beside him only cutely smiled.


I almost didn’t believe it – about how emotional the moment was. I could barely even conceive a person showing such emotion to a complete stranger. He took a few moments to regain his composure, his body bright pink and hot, beads of sweat appearing against the few parts of skin that were visible, with more prevalent evidence of it beneath his lab coat and clothing were prevalent. The skin was clammy where he had touched me, my sense of feeling about the body becoming more obvious and true, as he became more and deeper In his thick shedding of tears. He suddenly paused however – almost on cue – as his mind shifted gazes toward my very conscious and very concerned face, wondering about this entire show. His deep breaths slowly calculated from hyperventilation to casual movements of the chest, inward and outward as his pensive eyes gazed into my utterly blank pair.


“Thank God,” he said, pulling one of his hands free from its latex enclosure, powder puffing from its interior as he rubbed it – and his fingers – across my forehead, as some sort of attempt at affection. His hands were utterly cold, an unwelcome addition along with the suspicious powder now streaking against my cheek and forehead as he seemed to want some sort of tangible confirmation to my proper and quite lively state.


“Thank God indeed,” remarked a voice from afar, as six eyeballs shifted across from the placid room that became an echo chamber with haste. The man whom claimed the words was large in structure, very much overweight, but jubilant in his figure. His keg of a belly tumbled out, as if rolling toward you when he walked, but it kept him moving with a bounce in his step, somehow still able to hold it tightly against his chest as it shook and wobbled like a water bed. The overalls were much too small, curving against his belly with a tight imprisonment, yearning for release; the metal straps too were in great distress. He grasp strongly the straps with his hands, perhaps trying to keep them busy from some habit he may had had in earlier years, such as tobacco smoking, or pointing fingers. One of the hands reached up to his chin, scratching against tufts of gray-white hair that were unshaven and in as much disarray as the rest of himself. He appeared confident though – almost invincible as he entered with his heaving steps, echoes continuing to roar as his polished shoes cobbled against the washed out linoleum, leaving utter streaks of gray in their path. His words continued to mumble out like a train wreck as he sped himself in the direction of the cold-handed man before me. The words, once again like the man, erupted in a shrill, southern accent, ticked from a man of Alabama, or some backwoods world far from the city-like, and clean cut language of the man nearby. The girl, she merely stood back, and let the two have at it.


“Thank God for this place, for I’m sure he led us here. Thank God he stored all that corn, and all’ that too – must’hn taken him a mighty long time to get it all in here. While you’re at it, might as well Thank God I found your ass walkin’ long the highway, with no place to go. You gots’a lot t’thank God for, don’t ye’?”’


“It was just a figure of speech…” The rebuttal was weak, uncharismatic, and shrouded. The so articulate man ran away, replaced by some coward whose voice shook as the poorly-worded and rather obtuse man kept at his rambling, circling him like a bull.


“Fig’ya of speech huh?” he remarked, grasping at his overalls in between his shaking of the finger - old habits do die hard. “I ain’ see no fig’ya like God now these days, guess he just gon’ up and poof eva’ since tha’ war came here – guess God is some cowad. Guess he gone up and climb behind his’ah pearly gates, watchin’ down as his own sons’an daughtahs gotta fight those Sickle Men all themselves – guess you gots lot to thank him for afta’ all – bet they’re killin’ some cousin, or some brotha’ of yours now. I Guess you shoul’ run off and thank that fancy man now, least’ before you forget.


“I get the point ,” remarked the articulate doctor – perhaps his patience was wearing thin of the jubilant man, for some of that character seemed to seep back up from his feet now, his hands clasped together tightly for a while – right around when the man in overalls had started talking about the cousin and brother killing. I was beginning to have difficulty following the group’s conversation at large, the witless conversation between the two had bored me – that or I was feeling some uncontrollable onset of unconsciousness; it might have been the medicine after all. I could only recall the pair watching as I yawned, or made some sort of verbal outburst, and their attention caught me in the instant that followed, as if the whole argument beforehand was some sort of game, perhaps to pass the time.


The man in overalls now thwomped over, his feet still booming, his body still shaking like the water bed as he came ever closer to me. He was now practically on top of me, his belly hanging but half an inch above my own, but much greater in difference of size and shape. He had brought his lips, of which hid a greatly mangled array of teeth, close to my left ear, ready to whisper something to me as he scooted himself closer,


“Son,” he began, that shrill of an accent still apparent, his teeth shinning a yellow hue as he warped around his gums as he spoke, “I am mighty proud of you – and now y’done make me the happiest man alive,” his words quivered for a second as he noted his amicability, perhaps a tear ready to let loose from his tightly wrinkled wedges called eyes. “I just can’ wait to have the whole crew see you live an well – you’re’a symbol to this communiteh! T’marrah, we gots many for you – you just wait now.”


He grinned,


“Doc’s gon’ah take care’you well now – he get you all fixed up in time for T’marrah, and then we’ll all get’t see you.” His body was almost shaking with compassion, absolutely ecstatic to see that I was alive and well. It appeared he couldn’t take it any more either, as he slowly rose, holding back those wedges from letting loose, beginning to walk to the door.


As he got to the door however, it appeared something was itching him in the back of his skull. Rather let it go or try to rub it off, he shyly spoke it to the three of us, with its attention directed toward me:


“An’ Son, “he slowly began, “You’re among friends now – don’t you worry a’bit.”
And with that, he exited.


*


“As bashful as ever,” a cool voice said. I couldn’t see who exactly said the words, but it sounded masculine enough to be the man now referred blatantly as Doc. The good doctor, or whatever he was called, had muttered to himself while I had my eyes closed, trying to stop the spinning as I proceeded to endure sensory overload.


“He’s just trying to be nice,” quietly remarked a much lighter, brighter, and feminine voice. It must’ve been the assistant, the one whom has been circling my dreams for so long now. She sounded close, yet distant as my eyes twirled around in the artificial darkness my eyelids were creating. I’d open them, but I prefer not to see the room spin and myself perhaps become sick. Instead I just sighed deeply, my head resting against a lumpy and aged pillow, my body still half numb, half sore.


The pair kept talking, switching from topic to topic in a sway between topics. My mind couldn’t grasp exactly what they were talking, as it kept drifting in and out of states of consciousness. For one moment, they’d be discussing something about bleach; the moment that followed next was about toothpaste. It seemed the most irrelevant things to bring up, but somehow they stuck out from the rest, which was a drift of mumbles and unknown recollections. Perhaps it was the few moments I had awoken for but a few moments, as I vaguely recall them stopping mid-sentence, and gazing over me with supreme caution, at least until I’d drift back into the unknown mixture of unconsciousness, laced with a few short moments of sleep. It kept on like this for a while – at least long enough to have felt the time pass. I didn’t dream, nor think beyond the most basic of feelings. All I could focus on was that constant numbness, it was brutalizing at times.


Then came the moment I had finally awoken – in a flash – finally able to hold complete, absolute, and constant consciousness. It was almost like an awakening – like some embodiment had lay upon me a blessing, and with that I was with life once more. It was almost intoxicating, to finally awake and feel that complete consciousness.


It came slowly, first as I had arrived from one of those phases of sleep-unconciousness. I could recall the first words coming from the Doctor, whom I could see fiddling with something rather carefully, and worriedly, at my arm.


“It’s almost out now,” he remarked, but not to me. It appeared someone was hovering over him – make that two people as he continued to have struggle with my limp arm. It appeared someone stepped in and assisted,


“Hold on! You might hurt him – I got it,” a rushed set of quiet, high pitched words stroke at the Doctor, whom released his grasp against whatever he was toying with. I could see some fluid spill around as the soft, small hands grasped the plastic tube, pulling it from its place against my arm. The numbness had, as she removed it, begun to wither away. I was beginning to feel much of the exterior and edges of my body once more, finally able to better grasp my once weak digits and appendages. She gave me a smile, as I returned the gesture.


The portly man had retuned, this time in more fashionable attire. The Doc still had his lab coat on, much like the smaller girl to his side. The two appeared tired, bags under their eyes alike. It was a sharp contrast to the suit, complete with top-hat, the portly man had worn. It appeared to have not been worn for some time though, a strong, revolting stench emitting from it – even through the various layers of chemicals and cleansers of the room. He smiles, clasping his hands in front of him, causing the suit to tug and stress at the edges, much like his overalls. He shined his mangled teeth, his hands rubbing with excitement as the Doctor, still weary in appearance, looked to him with caution.


“He’s still very weak you know,” he said, obviously referring to me. Meanwhile the lab coat bearing girl had come even closer to me, a hand outstretched as she begin to turn me, attempting in vain to rotate me from my rather bed-ridden position and to have me sit against the railing of the harsh, lumpy, disgusting place I had called home for so long now. It was a transition that it appeared only one person in the room was absolutely ecstatic for. He twirled and danced mentally his body beaming with energy and squeezing at the seams of his suit jacket.


“It’s now’o neva.” He replied, his accent as atrocious as ever. He now crossed his arms, watching carefully as the Doctor now stepped in, assisting the girl as I rotated from my position upon the bed, laid back and angling my head occasionally, and now was upright. My body was flustered for a moment, but it adjusted quickly to the new scenario. It even felt revived with energy, as I doubt I had been in any position but upright for some time now. I now sat before the trio, the excitement of the portly man still erupting from his top-hat, a grin hard for him to hide as he watched carefully.


“Easy does it,” he said, the words grasping in between his teeth as they escaped his lips, causing Doc to mildly scoff at him. I myself wondered about that phrase – perhaps thinking it was a little improper – I wasn’t exactly a box of glass, nor some sort of commodity he was about to stand out to serve as a trophy. I was a human being, at least last time I had checked; to that man before me, I was something else.


Regardless of my thoughts, regardless of Doc’s scoff, they had lifted me from the bed. Doc paused for a moment while getting me up, to ensure nothing was in the way and that I had plenty of space - as if erecting me out of sand or feeble glass. My body quivered for a moment, a hushed breeze erupting from a ventilation shaft that was spewing the air nearby. I wobbled for a second, my body adjusting as the blood had rushed from my head to my toes in but a few seconds. It was a nauseating experience; my feet shifting for a second, Doc and the girl close to give me assistance. It was unnerving to have them so close, giving me no room to compose myself alone. Though they had released me from that gripping plastic tubing, they still held the leash so close, ready to grab me back at their greatest convenience. I sighed as the blood balanced itself along my head, chest, and appendages. Doc took it rather offensively, wondering if I was growing with distaste of him, the girl and portly man oblivious to it meanwhile. He took a step back as I blinked several times, the room still maintaining those same qualities as bright and inhumane as ever. The portly man walked up to me, grabbing me with his stubby hands, both latching onto my shoulders as he beamed his teeth at me, the blue balls within their sockets examining me with great precision, checking for cracks against their new statue.


“Now aren’t you a sight for tha’ sore eyes!” he said, letting go of his grasp against me. The weight of his hands alleviated my stress a little as he clasped together against one another, enjoying their company as opposed to weighing my whole body down. It appeared the man didn’t know his strength very well, as he went on with his broad movements, slapping Doc against the back every now and then to exemplify his emotion. Doc would just stare back with a quiet sense of anguish as he did, mostly because the action would follow with a “Boy,” “Son,” or “Chap.”


“Was mighty worried of you past few months now ma’son,” he started, pacing about the room as he shoes squeaked against the faded linoleum, his top hat bobbing much like his gut as he moved about. The suit still wanted to get out, very concerned with its condition as clothing, and potential of being torn into rags by the man’s body.


“Now boy, we can’t have you sit’n here for tha rest of your life, as if waitin’ for a miracle. Doc’s a mighty fine surgeon, but he ain’ Jesus, that’s for sure. So we gon’ get you back your strength tha’ good ol’ fashion way – through a lil’ compassion, and work here and the’ya. Hows that sound my son?”


He was back on my shoulders again, his eyes staring closely - carefully into me as he made the offer. My body flinched as he did, unexpected to have so close a response to the man it hardly knew. The words he used were so inaccurate – so strange. For a moment, he’d seem so educated, so understanding. But in a flash that twang would erupt, and with it that lack of meaning, logic, and standards. He wore that suit like a philanthropist, but it stretched with every movement he made, about to lose whatever composure the body still had from its many years of weight gain and heavy usage. He mentioned Jesus a few times already – the word so familiar, yet also so anecdotal. It seemed to feel as if it held a place in my mind, but for what it was still hard to determine. For the most part, it was just a cap to an empty filling, waiting to be replenished, or discarded.


“Uh, Okay.” I replied. My head was so lost in thought it was the first thing to come to mind when I looked up, his body still in awaiting a reply. He seemed so similar to that word he had mentioned before – Jesus. His body had a stiff, ugly shell. Everyone here looked like Jesuses, each and every last one of them without content, yet existing and standing before me. They were strangers alike, all perhaps waiting to be discarded, or filled with the knowledge I learned from them. Their vessels seemed so empty now, and I watched as the portly man embraced me. He stepped slowly with me, ensuring I could walk with the little strength I had toward the door of the infirmary. The room spun a little as he pushed me along, not only ensuring I remained in one piece physically but also did not collapse with him. We had to stop for a moment against the white wooden structure before us, a brass knob on the lower right side. He stood behind me, forcing me closer to the door with his protruding gut as I reached toward it. I hesitated for a moment, afraid to move on as his figured hunched over me, waiting with anticipation for me to open it. At this point however, I could not stand back and watch as hollow bodies guided me along. Either I had to free myself from them, or follow them and learn what made them physical and no longer ethereal creatures.


I grasped the knob, and it was cold. The brass was tarnished and hit quietly against my warm fingers as I gripped it, my hands careful not to move as they did not enjoy the sharp sting of the knob as I held onto it dearly. As it began to warm from the energy emitting from my fingertips, it became management as a tight control of it allowed me to turn it clockwise, bowing to me as I heard it click. The click was all it needed, for I slowly watched as the wooden structure – the door – slid forward as my weight pushed against it. I let go as I felt my balance weaken, and the door flew freely into the frigid room ahead. As I watched the darkness hug the door, I felt fearful, wanting to turn back. My head rotated one hundred and eighty degrees, only to meet the grinning man once more. He scooted me along, practically pushing me in. Ahead I could only see a blackness emit, nothing – not even the door I knew but moments before – could be seen as I walked within.

II


A great pain emitted itself from the eyeballs as I took my first step into the cold, quiet, and dark room. Nothing was pleasurable at the first impression – nothing could be neither seen nor felt. All that could be felt was a stingy air that evacuated itself around me, frigid air begging to run from the outside into the infirmary behind me, whiplashing me as it ran past. I shivered; a warm body behind me embraced itself around me as it saw the shivers. I didn’t asked to be held, but it still felt reassuring to feel the warm wool rub against my skin, tugging at my hairs and dermis as it left the occasional red mark, but sense of security in the remnant.


My eyes had begun to feel less pain – and subsequently adjust to the lack of light in the room. It appeared the infirmary had been left a bold and bright setting, with thanks to the white paint, white linoleum, white lab coats and white fluorescent lighting. Out here, just a few steps away from that white room, everything could just be labeled as black as night itself. The concrete exterior appeared to be gray in composure, no paint pleasing or complimenting the sedimentary conglomerate of cements and rock. The walls, ground, and roof all shared this trait, leaving little to be desired – and even more unappealing in the little light that gave the room depth and composition. The sole pair of incandescent lights wobbled above, swaying a constant train of shadows in the room as they toyed with one another, a yellow hue upon the figures that stood upon me, watching carefully as the man behind me released his grasp, and nudged me ahead toward them.


It was a very misaligned group. The individuals had surrounded with curiosity and interest, but there was no order to the in which they presented themselves. From left to right, it began with one who kneeled on a stool nearby, one leg resting against the wood with a tight boot squeezing the rubber against the varnishing. His leather jacket crunched at the creases along his shoulder blades and arms, but it remained open along the chest and lower abdomen – revealing a white undershirt beneath it. He rubbed his nose and quietly sneered as he got a look at me, a well-knit goatee hugging the lips as they scoffed to the woman beside him. The woman beside him meanwhile clutched him tenderly, a skin tone of caramel and thin in composure. She was stick-like, long tufts of frayed blonde hair caressing her skin, as well as the man beside him. She loosely wore the clothes she had on, eyeing me with a strange gaze and ignoring the words of her partner. The look appeared to be one of fear.


Even darker in complexion, the man beside her stood with his arms tightly crossed, but meanwhile an open face appearing above the neck. The body and head seemed so dissociated – a thick, muscular, and heavy build did not match with the small, brighter face above it. It appeared to however been through much, as it creased and layered the skin at various points, the age apparent – but nowhere near as prevalent as the wrinkles of the man behind me. His hair was a black bush, well-kept much to the likes of the goateed man not far to his right, and my left. He continued to hold the grin as I looked onward, gazing at the boy who I gazed upon for some time, much longer than anyone else.


He appeared to be the least interested out of the rest of the group. A shy, introverted smile perked at against his tiny lips when I looked toward him, but it quickly replaced itself with a frown of regret and fear when I refused to look away. He was much smaller, perhaps the shortest and tiniest of the entire group. He appeared pale in complexion, even more pale than the others around me, and even more pale than my own unkempt and ill-treated skin. He took a step back, a shadow of the large black man beside him consuming much of his pasty white skin. The white shirt and blue jeans he wore didn’t help to add to make him shine or stand out. The best change of but tiny a glimpse of character emitted from the large glasses that hugged his nose, blinking at me with caution until I had looked away – and finally released my investigation upon him. He was overjoyed when the portly man came beside him, grasping his tiny hands with his own pudgy fingers, drawing him up to the semicircle that had formed around me – complete with all seven of the inhabitants of the facility.


“Welcome to yah new home!” exclaimed the portly man as he swung his hand, the little person near him latching on with fear as his feeble arms wavered in the air, and flew back down when the man had released his grasp. He chuckled, patting the boy’s back as he stepped forward, adjusting his suit once more – ensuring one last time everything was absolutely perfect in his attire.


“Welcome home!” he said, the yellow teeth beaming at me, “I am McCoy, but you can just call me ‘Pa,’” he remarked, a devilish grin on his face,


“Pa?” I asked, a little bewildered at the statement – this sack of goo that walked with bashful smiles and heavy steps couldn’t possibly be related to me.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” a grunt emerged from the leather-wearing, boot-bearing individual to his right, my left. “Not like he’s actually your kid or something like that,” he replied. I quietly breathed a sigh of relief as the man said it.


“Don’t be so naïve my child,” he said to the leather man again, gritting at his mangled teeth for a moment, “Down here, we all family – and whomevah’ our newest member has once had as a mother, or once had a father doesn’t matter – all we gots now is each other. Til’ death do us part’.”


“Til’ death do us part,” scoffed the leather man yet again, perhaps remarking at the language the portly man, now McCoy, had used.


“Don’t mind him,” McCoy said to me, stepping a little closer as he tried to begin pointing out everyone in the complete group. “Sidney’s just got a junebug in his jeans today, he’ll get over it.”


“It’s Sid – and don’t mind McCoy, he’s just outta’ his mind.” The rebuttal came with a giggle from the woman clenching tightly to him – but it didn’t feel very hearty, or emotional.


McCoy had taken the opportunity to ignore Sid as he moved on to the girl right beside him. “That there my boy is Dawn,”


The woman appeared even more decrepit, now that I had taken a moment to further investigate her. Her eyes appeared to be yellow pearls, aged and discarded some time ago. Her skin, though beautifully tan, was discolored on the edges and spotted with freckles and other imperfections. It tugged and dragged itself tightly and irritatingly against her bone, leaving little to imagination beyond her emaciation. Her hair was frayed, cut, and mangled – even appearing to fade into a bleached whiteness at the edges. She tried to smile, but she appeared latched against Sid, her body unable to escape even for a moment to give a complete, separate greeting.


“She’s our little ray of sunshine,” replied McCoy with a joyful grin, and he turned my head onward.


A Dark figure was now in my view – but visible as the glistening beads of sweat would trickle from his bald forehead as he bent his neck down toward me. He was tall, almost as tall as the Doctor whom lay nearby. The difference between the two appeared more than just beyond the color of their skins. He held muscular, firm appendages, reaching out and crossing as the folds of muscle clenched tightly, revealing a few veins that had popped against his figure. His body showed this authoritative stance, unable to falter from its erect figure. The Doc, meanwhile, often seemed hunching over, almost afraid to show his vertical advantage.

Despite these differences, the men also seemed to hold similar traits deep within their facial complexion, and identity. Both always seemed deep in thought- eve now as the portly McCoy was explaining that the man before me was known as Jacob, he seemed to peer down at the floor ahead of me, examining the poured concrete surface with great caution, as I had noticed it when he looked down toward it. The ground was gray, clashing with the tightly polished shoes of the colored man named Jacob. The shoes appeared to clash with his jeans and short sleeved shirt – but they also clashed with the rest of the group. Even with just those shoes – he appeared the best dressed for the occasion compared to everyone, even the tuxedo-bearing McCoy behind me, whose clothes gurgled and screeched as he put a hand on my shoulder. He was talking to me the entire time I thought this out – but I only caught the last bit:

“Just see him if ya needs’ anything.” He smiled his teeth toward Jacob – there came no verbal reply – only a nod of the appendage above his neck, and a dedicated attention once more to the concrete flooring before me.

“Movin’ right along,” stated McCoy, whom gestured out toward a being beside the living statue. The creature there shuddered just as the pudgy fingers latched out toward him. He was a quaint, quiet, and small being – more emaciated and lifeless than me or anyone else in this room. His hair looked fleshy – grime and dirt causing it to stick together in clumps appearing like a shiny film over the top of his head. The skin didn’t appear too well cleaned either, his fingers dark in a mixture of dust, and what appeared to be oil or some other form of grease. His face had a cherubic sense to it – hidden behind the layers of grime; it looked round and puffy, like when you have mumps or some other inflammatory condition of the cheeks. It looked as though the face were misplaced – for the rest of his body kept on to that dirty, unhealthy, and thin design. He too hid the view of his face to look toward the ground – but instead aiming toward his feet to ensure a much more difficult perception. McCoy was unfazed though, and just went on with his words as if everyone was listening. However, I felt he knew very few of us were stilling clinging onto much attention with his words at this point – the tension in the room began to heat, as everyone felt uneasy and out of place, ready to run back into their hiding places.
“His name’s Peter – he’s ya new best friend – think of him like ah’ brother – You’re both going to have a lotta’ fun ‘round here – I’ll leave the chit-chat for later though…” Those were the bits and pieces I could grab in between his various anecdotes about his life and unnecessary notions. They appeared to be all what mattered too – it wasn’t like they were volunteering much else information.

“Last – but certainly not the least bit important – we gots yo’ Doc, my Doc – everyone’s Doc – Doc.” I looked perplexed a moment – but the Doctor didn’t avoid a moment to shine when he saw one. He adjusted his lab coat, latching at his unshaved whiskers along his chin as he gave me a grin. His teeth appeared much well-kept in comparison to anyone else’s here, shining with an ivory white glow, perfect in alignment. The others inside appeared to have more mangled and gnawed teeth, succumbing to a film of plaque and layer of yellow to surface along the gum line and into the deeper layers of enamel and tooth. He quietly closed his lips, hiding the pearly whites as McCoy went on another ramble, discussing something about how Doc came at the last minute, and how I’d be toast without him. I was already well aware of him being my savior, and considered it best to just not interrupt McCoy with that acknowledgement.

And then we were up to her.

Her; She; Covered in sweat, dirt, and gruel – I felt something emanate from beneath the many layers of filth and stained clothes she wore. It was beyond a physical comprehension, and I couldn’t explain why. She wasn’t anything special, her face a small thing, smooth, yet roughed up and covered with scrapes. Bags hung beneath her eyes, sagging against her cherubic face and echoing her large bug-like eyes. Her bosom was nothing special, the body thin but not too thin or too large – just somewhere in the gray area. It was hard to describe the rest of her; much of it still covered by the lab coat and darkness surrounding us all. The lights in here did little justice to the environment around us. Still, something was in connection between us; much deeper and beyond the physical attractions. Her heat would beat, and somehow I’d feel it trace slowly toward mine, each in asynchronous orbit, thumping in tune. I saw her glimpse a bit of a smile, just off the corner of my eye as McCoy had turned me away, and brought his cold hands back into my own. He faced me now, the warmth and images of her now fading away, all remaining the name of her lingering – something that spoke as if an afterthought from his mouth:
Katelyn.

“If you need anything – A-ny-thing, just come an ask ol’ McCoy, or Jacob. We’ll get you it.” He again, shined those unkempt teeth of a unexplainable composition, they gnawed against his lips as he continued to speak, outlying details that didn’t matter much to me, only an afterthought to me as he began to walk be through the dark hallway beyond where we were.

“We gots lots to discuss now Alex – but we can’t start now! It’s almost eleven! Get some rest, and Jacob will wake you in the mornin’, we will talk ‘bout your duties then.” I thought about that number he stated. Eleven seemed so out of place – not the time that felt right. The thing is, as we traveled through this entire concrete jungle, not once did I see a window, see some sign of the outdoors. It appeared that time was at our own rate, our own biological clocks. McCoy had just set mine off – and now it was eleven. Not twelve - not ten – yet eleven? It appeared there was no one else here, so why keep track of time? No one else here seemed to care of the time, so why follow some rigid system designed for business in a place that requires it. In here, time never felt so linear before, why now? Duty – was that the purpose of time, or was time the purpose of Duty?
By the time McCoy had stopped me and ended his speech on time and duty, we were before a large, steel door. The door appeared unused, long since sealed and without interaction or movement. I could tell, for dust had accumulated along the large metal handle that were designed to open and close it. Above it was some sort of bolt lock, with which McCoy made short work of using a key he had fished from his tuxedo pants. He pushed down – after a short struggle with the rust and decay – the door handle, a loud clank coming from the machinery as the pushed the free door toward the entrance, giving way to what was within.

Darkness.

At first, the room was a pitch dark night. The bulbs above myself and McCoy had bled little light in – only giving the slight reflection of an object within – the only evidence of something within. McCoy put one foot in, waning his head left and right, as if looking for something amid the blackness. He then flipped a switch, which – after a short buzz and flicker of the fluorescent tubes above – gave life to the facility.
The room was tidy, and timid. Though room was layered with a hue of yellow and white, I still felt small and out of place. The factor only amplified with the blankness around everything within it. The walls, floor, and ceiling all shared the same quiet and blank white color, each of them reflecting the hue from the fluorescent bulbs to offer a glow onto myself and McCoy as we walked within. Inside everything appeared to be alight with fire and energy – it all bouncing off against the empty walls.

“Home sweet home, eh?” he grinned the yellow teeth at me, which even in here seemed a little brighter. My pupils were contracted once more, making everything within die down in intensity slightly, and the outside too dark to view. It was as if I never left the infirmary.

“Sweet indeed,” I quietly murmured to him. I didn’t want to mark my anger toward him or anyone else, after all it was his compound.
“Well,” McCoy began, his body appearing twisted and tired from dealing with the tuxedo bent around his large frame for so long, “I think I’d’a best let you get accustomed with the room and get it all howevah you want it suited – Oh and lights out in ten. Have a’ good night!

I nodded to him as he turned and marched to the door. He slid the door closed and with a clank, I heard him push the lock into position.

I took the moment beyond that to enjoy the few moments of sunshine I’d have in the compound. At first I glanced around to take note in further detail of the items in the room. There was a small cot, not much larger than the one in the infirmary, lying untouched in a corner. It had sheets that were as white as a ghost – the scent of bleach still prevalent as the room had been untouched and free of foreign scent for so long. The bleach had apparently also begun to dissipate into the air, the stingy tang of it emanating around the cot, and the floors. It wafted into my nose, and caused it to wrinkle with discontentment.

I stepped to my right, and noted a drawer standing along, again a white paint plastered over the plywood design. Within it was a rather ordinary composition of clothes – in a variety of shapes and sizes. For the most part it was a bunch of t-shirts, coupled with jeans, and the occasional pair of shorts. The selection was far from modest and even farther from quality. It appeared most of it was from larger, or tattered clothing that had been slowly pieced together. One shirt looked as though it had been cut shorter and washed to shrink and become a better fit for me. The jeans were hemmed, sowed, and deformed at various points, apparently once for a man at least three times my size – perhaps from McCoy. In the entire drawer, not a single pair of pants or shorts was untouched. The only actual piece of clothing to appear complete intact was a sole white t-shirt, just like the others, except it appeared something had been upon it at one time. The bleach had not completely removed whatever was on it – and a yellowish – or brown – hue was along the upper edge of the neck cuff, more toward the back of the shirt. I had quietly pondered what could have caused the stain as I placed it on top within the drawer. One thing I was certain though was that it must have been a heavy dye; otherwise the bleach would have easily done away with it.

Upon closing the clothing drawer, I took my eyes in view toward the very last item still untouched in the room. The desk. It was different, something hiding beneath it. I cold tell, as a dark hue of some unknown color was coming through the weak coat of paint, apparently some sort of stained wood or other composition was bleeding through. I observed the desk with care and caution as I rubbed my hand along the surface, feeling the smooth finish of the paint over the wood. Some of the edges where the different pieces met were however rough and unfinished – perhaps implying a short term of work. I didn’t want to get a splinter, so I instead began to investigate the drawer just below the top of the desk, which came open with the help of a little elbow grease and effort. Within it, I could see even the very inside had been given that unfinished, weak layer of paint. However, something else caught my eye – it was a piece of paper.

No, wait, it wasn’t paper. It was a book. Not just any book, but one of those miniature legal pads you use when writing notes or keep track of something on the go. It appeared to have been placed while the pain was still trying, for small splotches of the white stuff had stuck to the cardboard backing to the writing pad. As I examined with care – I had noticed that the cover page was not free of graffiti, and on it instead was a message – written in a careless style with a severe lack of prose:

“Son,
From now on, my house is your house. Whether you need a fresh meal, a hand, or a ear – just come to old me or someone else.
Remember ----

I would have continued reading the note, but it appeared fate thought otherwise. My ten minutes were up and McCoy had, as promised, cut the power. The room, in an instant, went from this glowing entity to a now cold and quiet box. I stood in the darkness, thinking to myself.

“How Coy… How Coy indeed….”

My body, though energetic and excited and nervous and worried and enthralled and above all concerned, it needed rest. Given the subsequent darkness, I needed to find my way back to the cot. only when I slowly leaned forward and dropped the Pad, waiting until I heard it slap the table with a thud did I actually retrace my steps. My memory served me well on top of it all as I slowly crawled over the cot, climbing into it amidst the darkness, fumbling with the covers until I lay back within it. It was ironic to be able to recall the events of today so clear, so vibrant – when everything before them was just an empty void chasm in my mind. The present could be recalled by the letter: the looks on the faces of the two beings, now Doc and Katelyn, whom would hover over me like demons when I lay unconscious; the look on McCoy’s face when he saw me for the first time; the looks from Sid, Dawn, Jacob, and Peter – the entire group. It was all intensive as I pondered it over, at least until the drowsiness made even sheer thought a trauma.
In but an instant, sleep came over me.

III.

The night was eventless.

In what felt just minutes, hours waved past and time moved on without me. It was impossible to really tell what time it was, the absolute emptiness and darkness enveloped around me like a shell, making all objects once noticeable now invisible, unable for my mind to determine their placement. I remember the day prior so vividly – with so much concrete information and completeness – in here everything felt so incomplete, so quiet, and so unknown. The only time I could tell I stopped dreaming would be those few moments I noticed my eyes flicker, and look up in some expectation that daylight had arrived. Instead of dreaming, those moments of time passing were my indicators. I’d look up and around a few moments, and then just lay my head against the pillow in a fit of insomnia. This cycle went on for some time through the night; I didn’t get much sleep at all.

It what felt like an unending cycle, I’d continue waking, looking around, and looking back down at my pillow. I don’t recall how many hours there could be in a night – maybe eight at best – but it felt like many had passed by the time the cycle came to its rather abrupt end. I must have risen at least thrice in the night before noticing something different. Something was out of place that third time I rose, and looked around.

For starters, I could hear something. There were murmurs outside – someone, or something, was outside my steel door. It was certainly someone from the group earlier – who else would it be? I pondered deeply as I listened intently to the voices, speculating who It would be. The voices sounded too rich – too deep and with character – to be of a girls’. There was a fast pace to it, so I speculated it were one of the older pair – perhaps McCoy and The Doctor. A late night checkup? A little odd - but perhaps. It seemed unnecessary, but who am I to judge.

That all ran away fast – especially as I heard some clicking at the door. The handle was being played with, not opening or closing abruptly. McCoy was fairly quick with the door, not the least bit to approach me ever. I doubt either him or The Doctor would be hesitating as they came toward my door, so it had to be someone else, and now I had no idea who. The thought of greeting them at the door struck a chord of fear along my heart, and I felt it best to just lay my head against my pillow, and make the presumption to whomever was there that I was asleep. They hesitated to enter, perhaps fearful to wake me. I kept my head pressed against the pillow, hoping they’d move on.

They didn’t. I could hear them fiddle with the door some more, a little less hesitation and more determination. They had gotten as far as to walk up to my door – to walk away would be a mistake. I merely grasped at the covers, hoping they’d move on from their prowl.

Then the door clicked, and it swung open.

Light embalmed the room in a great white light, flooding the doorway with visibility that gave the room much color amid the darkness. The pair of individuals at the door hesitated as they stood there- the door open – their shadows casting long, tall beings along the floor of my room. I turned my head to look, and it caught their attention. They were quick to close the door behind them once they saw me move, ready to make their approach.

The footsteps were deafening – the two walking in unison as they inched toward my cot. They were still remaining cautious, very afraid of getting caught, and making an effort to say and speak as little as possible at this point. With a large steel door between them and the hallway, I wasn’t quite sure if it was for their sake, or mine. Regardless, they eventually made their way to my caught, hesitating once more.

The taller one – though only by a few centimeters – looked to the other. They were both nearly impossible to see, but perhaps by some invisible energy in the room I could vaguely make out two men standing over me, each watching with care. The hallway was too bright, and its contrast with this room made it nearly impossible for the pair to see beyond their own hands, while my adjusted eyes were very capable of viewing their outlines in this darkness. I could tell as they made gestures to one another, expecting me unable to reply, comply, or able to see. One gestured toward my head, perhaps an attempt to wake me. I continued to remain idle, not to scare them, or make them draw attention. I suppose that’s one thing we had in common - I sure as hell didn’t want to talk to McCoy again tonight, or get into any awkward moments with the people here. Besides, if they wanted to harm me, I’d be able to see the with a weapon, or draw something from their sides – so I felt, even in my stillness, some kind of advantage at hand.

Then the man on the left touched me.

His hand reached down, just as where the other man pointed, right along my neck. My head jolted, a reflex I had little capability to control. In response, the other men – too – jolted backward in surprise. Originally expecting to have to wake me, they didn’t believe I was awake the moment I jolted. At first they might have started thinking it was some kind of nerve reflex, but as I continued to shake my head in discontent from the touch, he must have realized I was quite conscious the entire time.

“You awake?” his associate said in his deep voice, perhaps still a little skeptical of my condition even still.

“Who are you?” I asked them both, rising quietly from my cot, my body sweating with an unpleasant mixture of fear, adrenaline, and heavy pants from my lips. I really didn’t expect them to touch me right away, even though I saw their hands so close – I thought they’d hesitate a little longer, afraid to touch me. It seemed also without thought he touched me, and it was with a caress – rather a grab. I’m actually not sure why I jolted back, as it seems there really was no malicious predisposition. The three of us watched each other now, frozen in fear from one another, and both of us pumping with that same sweat, that same unpleasant mixture of fear, adrenaline, and heavy pants from the lips. We were actually quite similar, we were both very afraid.