It's cold in here. Dark and quiet, too. So quiet that I can hear the rattle of air going in and out of my parched mouth, being pushed by an abused diaphragm through constricted lungs.
I don't like the silence. Or maybe I should just say this entire situation.
Maybe I should recap what's happened up to this point, right? Make things make more sense? Welp, sorry to leave ya hanging (heh), but I don't remember a flippin thing before I woke up in this room. Anything else, for that matter.
Or is it a room? I don't know. Heck, half the time I think I'm still asleep on account of how dark it is in here. But I can imagine the blue of my lips and the grey of my fingertips, the red of my eyes and the purple of my swollen wrists.
Wait, were those colors? What exactly are those anyway? All I know is that it has something to do with light. I think I miss light. Whatever it is.
Yeah, I am fairly certain that I was kidnapped. The cold grip of the cuffs securing my wrists and arms to a chain is the only thing keeping my toes from reaching the floor. And no, my arms are not at a triangle shape, they are straight up (or down, I don't know). This is what I am certain is called torture. I am having trouble breathing.
I've been like this for at least twelve hours, based on my BMs. After a while, my stomach just decided to lose all feeling, so that was great.
I feel like merde and don't remember who I am. That's not a good thing.
What language is merde from? French? German? No, it's some Romance language, but I don't remember enough to recall which one.
To pass the time, I screech a bunch of half-arsed melodies. Oo, something I remembered that isn't important!
These songs are really annoying, and hurt to finish. Ech. If I hear my voice do that one more time, I would smack my self if I could. Speaking of which, there aren't any echoes in here, which is kinda eerie.
I know it's definitely been more than a day, for my brain is now dispensing some not cool thoughts. Like how interesting death seems. My toes can now touch the floor and I can't feel my arms. Or my lungs.
Are people supposed to feel their lungs, or was that just me? Maybe what I should say is that I can't feel the formerly searing pain of my ribs anymore.
What I do feel today is loneliness. Lots and lots of loneliness.
I guess you never really appreciate human contact until you lose it. I must've had enough interaction before I was taken, for my heart aches for another person. And for some properly oxygenated blood. I don't think I am doing very well.
Okay, I decided that I'm a teenager, just because I need to choose some identity marker to keep myself sane. Sanish, my bad.
I never remember if Taco-cat is one word or two. Tac o'Cat. Tuhcuh cut. Tahcoh Caht. Whatever. Am I saying all this out loud?
Do I have a family looking for me? Someone desperately searching for any sign that I'm still alive? I don't know if I'm alive anymore.
Whenever I try to speak I choke on air. My tongue doesn't remember the feel of liquid, and, to be frank, neither do I.
I can't cry. No matter how much I try, not a single drop falls. I suppose that is for the best.
Whoever took me probably doesn't even care if I live or not.
I can feel myself fading away even as I think this to you, Mr. Diary. What does Mr. mean? Does it stand for something?
Suddenly a fierce screeching fills the air, my head. I bring my knees up to my chest in some weird semblance of a fetal position. My back hurts and my shoulders scream from the strain. Finally!
Off to the side I hear thudding, then shouting. I perk up. Is it possible that someone is coming for me?
After about thirty minutes, silence falls again, suffocating me in its putrid fog. For now I know. No one's coming. I must not have been important enough to warrant a search. Whatever that is.
Finally a tear falls, the last drop of moisture from my body slipping away. I take one final raspy breath, my heart cloudy as this room is pitch black.
My name is Unknown, I think deliriously. Not human. I am not Human, I am Unknown.
From now on, my name is Unknown. Beautiful, isn't it? So truthful.
"Night-night," I whisper to the darkness and the quiet. "Night-night."
The next thing I hear is someone else's panicked heartbeat as hands feel around my own to find the cuff. A voice says something hurriedly, but I can't understand it. My ears hurt listening to the sounds.
The voice breaks through, the inside of my ear crackling. Is that supposed to happen?.
"We found you, kid...don't fall asleep...I'm..." Who's 'I'm'?
Shame. Too late, but at least someone came. Someone came.
I twist my lips one last time, blood dropping from the cracks.
Murmuring. Shapes in the darkness. More murmuring. Is this what death is? I'm not sure if this is death. Death seems to have more noise than what my situation was like before.
Something shakes my shoulder, something warm with a grip. Not like the cuffs, more like...
I move my head and wrinkle my brows, trying to grasp the last word of my thought. Agh! Tears fill my eyes, not in frustration, but in pain. My head hurts, like someone ran me over with a vehicle before burning rubber and blowing the fumes into my nasal cavity.
The something moves away, cold moving back in where the grip used to be. I open my eyes, then clench them tight at the lack of darkness. I thought the darkness was suffocating before, but I'm not sure what I think of the apparent absence of it.
I lick my lips, noting the tang of iron and the roughness of the surface. This is normal, right?
The grip returns, even tighter than before. A noise escapes from my throat as the something moves my back up to a vertical position. But...my shoulders don't hurt, and I can feel that my lower half is horizontal and resting on...something. Are there multiple somethings? CAN there be multiple somethings? The grip tentatively recedes.
A smooth surface parts my lips, and some substance flows into the cavity created. Wait...this is WATER! Memories rush back. I open my eyes, wincing at the brightness of the light, and bring up my hands to hold the cup. My throat sings at the sensation of moisture. My stomach, on the other hand...
I stop drinking and lower the cup, fingering the smooth metal surface. It is still half-full, but I don't think my stomach can handle any more. I look around at the tent and the cots. There are many wounded soldiers here and not enough doctors.
Numbly I sit up on the edge of the cot, cutting back a hiss as my joints pop. There are people who need help here. I reach forward and hold onto something to pull myself up, vaguely noting that there actually isn't anything to hold me up.
When I stand, I gulp down the rest of the water before venturing to start helping out the rest of the people in the tent.
Often all they needed was a tap or a cup of water and their wounds would start knitting themselves closed, but I occasionally had to splint broken limbs or remove bullets. When I get to the last cot I'm met with startled blue eyes.
What? I look down at my hands, just now noticing how bloody they are. With a blink of an eye the saccharin liquid faded away. I look back up, expecting the man to be calmer now that my hands aren't as gory, only to frown upon hearing the man gasp and choke.
"Excuse me, sir, what seems to be the matter?"