He jerked awake, heart pounding and sweat pouring from his every pore. Not again, he thought. Please not again. His pleas were ignored as a sudden lance of pain erupted in his upper spine, sapping the breath from his lungs as he could only gasp in pain. The fire spread in a viral wave, surging through his body and pulsing through his muscles. They could not withstand the siege and began to give, contracting slightly before increasing in scale, in tempo. His consciousness began to go white as his body gave way to the seemingly virulent tide of spasms and pain, evolving into agony. Sadistic contortions wreaked havoc on his body as he cried out with sounds akin to a dying animal. He could no longer perceive where he was, who he was; the only thing that accompanied him was the eternal torment. After what seemed like an age the fire began to wither and die, leaving him with a few kicks and spasms to remind him of its presence. A few prolonged seconds later, it vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him sore and shaken. He wiped the slime from the corners of his mouth and lurched for the bathroom, knowing what would come next. His will forced his body to the toilet, where he emptied what bile and bilge remained in his stomach. He managed to push himself up and away, a few heaves lingering. Weak, tired, tormented. This is how every morning seemingly began.

October 29th, that lovely day. Construction was halted because of a supplier getting the orders confused and tempers were running high. Over four days and they could hardly do anything; the bosses were talking of laying people off because they were losing money. While he had proven himself to be driven and efficient, he was still considered green after four months of work. Therefore, he was the bitch-boy for the rest of the crew. Insults, tedious errands, ridiculous and redundant tasks; he took it all in a day's work. Add to that the cold weather that often left him frozen, and his temper was beginning to flare. It didn't help that the forecasts were predicting snow in a matter of days, meaning a dead site at the end of the season. Overall, the tension was almost enough to cut the steel they needed four days ago. So when he came into work that day, he could hardly act surprised at the commotion that greeted him.

"Goddammit, Kyle, don't give me this crap again!" Boss chewing someone out on site? Someone screwed up, badly. He walked around the side of the office trailer and found Kyle and John, both looking livid and shouting at each other. It only took seconds for Kyle to spot him and begin the shit-flinging. "Well, if a certain someone had arranged everything like I told him to, maybe we wouldn't be low on supplies!" John whipped his head around and stormed over to Ulrich, halting inches away. "What is he talking about?" The question was more of a forceful growl than anything.

Kyle was a not only arrogant, but he was one of the local slackers. The only thing that kept him from getting fired was that he was generally at work. Ever since he joined the crew, Kyle had been looking for someone else to pin his blunders on. Guess who the new guy is, thought Ulrich.

"I picked up the compressor and I arranged for the stock to be delivered this morning. Either they're running late or someone's talking shit." He made sure to look at Kyle pointedly as he talked. Kyle's face ignited as he made for Ulrich but John pushed him back. "Enough! We'll sort this out later, for now just get to moving what we have. Got it?"

Kyle spat on the ground and looked pointedly at Ulrich before storming away. John turned back to him and sighed. "Ulrich, how in the hell is it that Kyle has such a hard-on for you? It's like you slept with his girlfriend or something." Ulrich smiled. "Wait, does he actually have one? Color me impressed." John simply chuckled and walked back to his office, shaking his head slightly.

Early morning lurched into midday, Ulrich running to and from various places acting more like a general assistant than a construction worker. He laughed at the crass jokes, retorted when they messed with him. It was like any other day, but it seemed like things were a bit lesser, as if they were going easy on him. Who knows? Maybe I'm finally settling in, he thought. As he drained his coffee, Ulrich turned and got back to cutting the woodstock when he heard a blaring truck horn. He looked up and sighed with relief; the truck carrying the rest of the steel had arrived. It pulled into the lot and halted, waiting for the lift. He saw Kyle spit again and walk over to the forklift, but it seemed like he hid something on his face. What was up with him today? Something had him more agitated than usual. Oh well. Ulrich shrugged as he dropped the cut stock into a nearby pile. Not exactly my problem.

A couple hours later, he was sure that Kyle was a little bit irate. Without a word, he dropped another bundle of lumber in front of Ulrich and sped off. As the minutes passed, Kyle stacked two, three, four piles of stock around him. He was still making cuts over an hour and a half later. Time continued to flow as he marked the cuts and chopped, again and again in an unending rhythm. Finally, he had all of the stock cut and piled. Ulrich began walking away as the lumber was hauled away to their various piles, awaiting their purpose. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he locked the saw and began walking to his truck. Time for lunch. He walked back to his Ford and pulled out a wrapped sandwich and a soda from the cooler behind his seat. As he ate, he noted just how odd Kyle was acting. He was a slacker by nature, but he seemed to move with determination today. Finishing the sandwich, he cracked open a can of Coke and drank, surveying the site.

Ulrich was a part of a local construction company, having moved to America after a couple lingering months in France. His father was dead now, not that his death hadn't been earned. He had arrived here and found construction work a little late into the season, just in time for the contract for this office complex. They were at least making progress on the third floor, with the insulation and wiring almost finished on the second. Once the steel finally arrived they could begin work on the storage annex. Overall, it seemed like the tension was beginning to thin out. He tossed the garbage on the back seat and began walking back, locking his truck as he moved. Of course, nothing's ever easy.

A lightning bolt shot through his spine and made him go limp, darkness rapidly swallowing his vision. Everything was a blur, incoherent except for the agony. The ambulance, the endless corridors, the swathes of people around him. The pain seemed unending, acting as the only constant through whatever hell he was in. It was as if he were underwater, struggling to hold his breath as he fought and tried to surface to no avail. Suddenly, the force holding him underwater was gone and he surged to the surface with a scream. He was aware of a room, of the blinding agony that screamed with him, resonating through every fiber of his being. Hands held him down, trying to place him at ease but were drowned out by the coursing agony. A pinch in his arm and darkness embraced him once more. The pain slowly released its grip and retreated further into the limitless dark, a rumbling growl echoing as it did so. He could finally breathe, think, rest.

He swam, league upon league passing as he pushed through the endless ocean. It was silent except for the rippling motion of the tide and a slight wind. Storm clouds stretched to blanket the horizon when he tried to float. Energy seemed like a pointless word as he flowed with this ocean, never once stopping to catch his breath or alleviate the soreness within his limbs. Time lost its meaning as well, with no end to the prelude of the storm in sight. Despite the hints of logic that infected his mind, such as panic and curiosity, he felt a sense of tranquility. Calm that could soothe a feral beast, peace that was undefinable within society. It was almost like heaven.

All too soon, just as abruptly as it began, Ulrich heard voices.

"…Keep a close eye on him and don't hesitate to alert someone if his condition changes."

He opened his eyes to a brightly-lit room. The pain thrived once again, but subdued. Ulrich's question was answered as the room spun to the right, revealing a pump connected to his IV line. Morphine? He went to move and felt the lance threaten him, prodding his upper spine. He then noticed a doctor and nurse chatting in front of his bed. They turned and immediately moved to his side. "Mister Stern, back from the dead?" The doctor chortled and was greeted with a stern look from the nurse. "Er, right, might not be the best time for jokes. Mister Stern, can you hear me? Can you understand me?" The doctor pulled a pen light from his coat and shined it in his eyes, blinding him. With effort, he managed to brush away the light. It feels like my arm is made of concrete, he thought groggily. His head felt like it was wrapped in pillows. "Where am I?"

"Well, you're capable of speech and you can move your arm. That's astounding, given what you've endured." The doctor straightened and moved to a computer on the left counter. Typing in a password, he turned back to Ulrich. "My name is Isaac McKinney, I'm one of the local neurologists here at the Unversity of Colorado Hospital. You are in Denver, Colorado and have been for around four days."

The conversation blurred, muffled by what he could only attribute to shock. The morphine didn't help, either. Ulrich vaguely registered the doctor mention potential paralysis, a partially severed spinal cord, over 21 hours in neurosurgery. He could barely breathe, feeling his mind tip over the edge. Is this real? He could barely make out their silhouettes moving towards him as darkness ripped him away from his nightmare.

Over the next four weeks, Ulrich could almost never get a good night's sleep. He was restless yet exhausted. If it wasn't for the pain medication or sedatives he thought he might never sleep. They guided him through basic therapy, testing his motion and reaction time. While painful at points, at least he wasn't paralyzed. They brought in electrodes, massaging his muscles to counter the atrophy. Eventually, he was cleared for the therapy floor. It helped that he could work his arms and legs, he just had to keep a flat back and take it slow. However, just as things crashed down around him before, it seemed that fate had other plans. The night that he got back from a paced workout, Ulrich had his first episode. He was crowded by enough nurses and doctors to smother him, making it all too easy to vomit after the seizure subsided. Two days of muscle relaxants and tests created a new theory. While the physical exertion hadn't directly damaged anything, it was believed that the energy and stimulation that coursed through the afflicted area had created a kind of short circuit. It could either happen with heavy work or from nothing at all; they couldn't determine what triggered it. After yet another week without an episode, they hesitantly allowed Ulrich to be released.

A mug and an hour of agony. That's what he gained with his break once he got home. His hands still shook and he was so light-headed that he could barely make it through the front door. It was the end of November, and snow had fallen for most of the time that he was in the hospital. He walked up the sidewalk and almost fell, earning him a jab with the lance in his back. His hands shook enough to make unlocking the front door a task worthy of five minutes. He couldn't even pour coffee. The kitchen floor splattered with the ashen liquid as he tilted the pot. He grit his teeth and raised the mug to his lips, straining all the while. The mug shook violently and sent hot coffee everywhere, burning his hands and face. He screamed and savagely hurled the mug at the wall. The mug shattered brilliantly, leaving behind a splash of Folger's and a cracked section of drywall. As if in punishment for the loss, a chunk of rock hit him in the back, like someone had crushed his spine. He collapsed, his body giving way to violent seizure. The beast poked its head from the void and roared in his ears, taking pleasure in his suffering. The pain faded eventually, growling and leaving him with a few tremors as a memento. Tears blurred his vision as he faded away. Please just tell me I'm in hell.

After a week that dragged along for what felt like a month, Ulrich came to a decision and slowly packed up his things, beginning preparations to move back to France. He dialed John's number and was rewarded with it going straight to voicemail. "Hey John, it's me. I've decided to move back for a while. Here's to hoping that I'll get well soon. Take care." He gave no indication when he would be back, and he intended to keep it that way. Will I ever?

He called an international shipping company and arranged for his things to be shipped to his new apartment. Setting a box down on the kitchen counter to pack up the dishware, he glanced over at the hole in the wall. It was a bit of an uncomfortable call to his landlord, but he still got back a decent amount of his deposit. The deposit and pay from the job were what funded the move, with a bit left over for the first two months if he couldn't find work. John had even pulled some strings and gave him Kyle's contract fee. When questioned, John had simply sighed. "Where he's going," he grumbled. "He won't be needing that money anytime soon." Placing the last of the plates in the box, Ulrich taped the box shut and went back into the living room, thinking. He didn't know why, but France was where he felt at home. Ever since his middle school days, despite everything, it felt like that was where he belonged. His thoughts strayed to them, but he shoved them away. He didn't need them, not now or ever again.

The flight passed without incident, just exhaustion. A blonde stewardess tried hitting on him but gave up at the blatant lack of interest. He simply smiled and asked if they had anything to drink. The doctor told him not to drink alcohol until the pain medication was out of his system. But hey, she also practically yelled at him when he told her what he planned to do. He smirked at the thought as he downed the small vial of Smirnoff, pulling the cap off another. What did it matter, anyways? Paralyzed, handicapped, dead; all or none of them could happen and the doctors knew as much as he did. If his condition did deteriorate, he may as well be relatively comfortable, right?

Now that he was here, in his cold, barren apartment, he almost laughed at the stupid idea that he would be comfortable here. What little comfort he had in this place had long since faded, sealed with his mother slamming the door in his face and refusing to even talk to him. It seemed like most of the magic, most of the comfort of the place had been held in them. Sure, he had managed to find a little bit of work to distract him, but now he had nobody. Whether in the U.S or in France, there was still nothing for him but survival. This only fueled his newfound pessimism and negativity, strengthening the void within.

The past three weeks had not seen a lessening of his symptoms; if anything, they appeared to be growing steadily worse over time. His daily routine had grown to include vicious episodes first thing in the morning. The only form of healing was the massive scar on his back, still not entirely healed. Slowly but surely, his nerve was failing. I'm a fucking epileptic. I've lost the last person that I talked to, who was my own mother. I can't even have a peaceful night of sleep. He looked up to see his ghastly reflection, thoughts of dread and hopelessness continuing to plague him. Faded color, a face that was all but emaciated, eyes devoid of light. He already looked half-dead. What's the point of resisting? He shook his head and forced himself up, turned on the shower and hopping in. He waited until the water burned.

He lumbered out of the bathroom a half-hour later, steam drifting in his wake, his skin reddened.

Despite having all of his belongings, the apartment looked abandoned. Thick drapes barred light from the apartment, a small, plain table sat in the midst of the room with a sofa a few feet away. The worn leather couch faced a wall, where a 30" flatscreen sat on a shelf that looked like it came from IKEA. The TV sat forgotten, the power cord unplugged and tossed over the frame. The queen-sized mattress sat in the corner of the apartment, resting on the creaky wooden floor. Despite having enough money to replace everything, he saw little point. While it was a large one-room apartment, a thin layer of dust had coated most of the features. Only a few pictures hung from the walls, the rest remaining untouched in their boxes. He rarely stayed in his apartment for the day, usually coming in late and falling asleep before he could get into pajamas. If he spent no time here and had nobody over, then why bother with appearances?

Walking over to the closet, he tried to think of something basic yet nice. A button-up shirt with a pair of trousers? Why not? He smirked as he pulled on the clothes, gingerly pulling a light green shirt over his head. His mind continued to drift as he buttoned the thin-striped shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Even the colors seemed bland, like someone had turned down the saturation on reality. That was how most of his days went, where everything was cast in shades of gray. His co-workers, his boss, the young woman that always talked to him as he passed the dainty shop on his way home; he couldn't even conjure interest or care for the conversations, and he could barely feign either. He sighed and closed the closet, wishing he could trap his mind inside.

Ulrich walked over to the kitchen and lifted the pot from the burner, pouring a stream of black liquid into a mug. A 50/50 mix of decaf and regular did seem to help with the frequency and severity of his little escapades into agony, so that became his new daily brew. Taking a sip, he grimaced. Still tastes nasty, he thought. A dull clunk echoed through the deserted space as he sat the mug on the counter and moved to a table next to the door.

He pulled open the drawer and began withdrawing items from among its contents. A folding knife, a lighter, his keys, a keycard. After loading up, he pulled out two bottles of pills. Each large enough to fit in his fist comfortably, he took a pill from both and tossed them back, swallowing them with a large gulp. He tossed the bottles back into the drawer and pulled out one last item: a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Picturing the doctor's reaction at him smoking made him chuckled to himself, but was greeted with an unwelcome surge of images. Their faces, their reactions. He halted dead in his tracks. Get a hold of yourself. Ulrich grit his teeth and pulled on a leather jacket, walking out of his apartment and towards the glaring morning light.

Until a shadow blocked the doorway. He looked up and scowled.

"What are you doing here?"

Trying to get back into the swing of things, let's see if I can stick with it this time.

I was debating about continuing this chapter, but I thought it was long enough for a brief intro.

-JJA