The Sixth Finger Price
"He wouldn't call it waking, but that was the only word he could use to describe it." Thirty years ago something happened to the author, and he hasn't been himself since.
He wouldn't call it waking, but that was the only word he could use to describe it.
His eyes opened to the sun hanging low in the sky, staining the surrounding clouds with mixed hues of pink, purple, and yellow. Whether it be dawn or sunset he could not tell, just as he could neither name where it was he lay sprawled.
A brush of unease washed through him, like everything else he could not name the source of it. His mind reached out for a reason, but it was like searching for a light switch in the dark. He knew it was there, just at his fingertips, but as his hand ran along the figurative wall he found himself unreasonably desperate, suddenly the darkness was unbearable and—
He pulled back into the light. His mind was missing something—many somethings—he realized as he metaphorically poked around his head, cringing back and making note of the gaping, empty spaces that once housed memories.
Unable to sit helplessly pondering over what he couldn't recall any longer, he found himself mechanically moving to push himself to his feet only to come to a halt halfway through the motion. He frowned down at the offending appendages, more specifically the lack of shoes or socks needed to protect his feet. There were further things for him to be baffled over as he was dressed only in a pair of worn jeans. No shirt, no shoes. He looked as if he'd traversed through the woods for a while in that very state of undress—at least if the dirt dried to his hands and feet was anything to go by.
He found himself morbidly fascinated by his own hands for no apparent reason, no matter what angle he looked at them they just appeared to be wrong. Even when he'd managed to stumble back to his cabin and scrub himself clean, his hands didn't look right. He would even go as far as saying they didn't feel right either as he clutched his spoon in hand while swallowing mouthfuls of cold soup.
He'd have to find his... Notebook... And... Record what he remembered? He'd go back to the site and collect evidence. Yeah. He'd do that tomorrow.
Most of this was written long before the middle of season two and confirmation to the twin theory, but it wasn't finished exactly in time so it sat abandoned on my laptop as I felt there was no reason to post it with canon having made it invalid. Now, years later, I find myself still interested in the idea and feeling like it was a disappointment to just delete it as I cleaned out my computer. So I polished it up for this. Hope you enjoyed it.