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A Lifetime of Unhappiness.
by faust
I. Ignorance is the parent of fear.
"Call me Isaac."
Muted sounds, blurred vision, stale taste in his mouth, as yet undefinable smell—all his senses are dulled as he slowly emerges from the deep waters of unconsciousness. He is emerging, isn't he? He's awake, not sleeping anymore. Someone has just spoken to him—right?
And then the sense of feeling sets in full force: pain, stabbing, piercing, relentless. Centering on the left side, low beneath his rib cage, it seems to spread from there all over his body, into his arms and legs, into his hands and feet, into his fingers and toes. It pulses into his head, where it throbs and drums in a merciless rhythm that robs him of the ability to think clearly, and makes him forget the desire to know, to understand.
A face swims into his view, blurred yet certainly unfamiliar features. Must be the man who'd spoken to him a moment ago. Waiting for a response, most probably. How utterly impolite of you, Adam. He would have snorted or lifted an eyebrow and smirked, but without explaining why that would be utterly impolite, too. Perhaps he'd better speak.
"Who…?" he tries. "Ishack?" His tongue hurts, too. It's thick and heavy. Woolly, somehow.
"Close enough." The man grins. That at least is unmistakable. That, and the fact that there isn't any humor in it.
He squints his eyes. Looking hurts, too, almost as bad as talking. Or thinking. But he needs to…to…
"Who…you?"
"Isaac." Mocking, almost malicious.
"Where…?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Why…?
"You'll see soon enough."
"What…?"
Suddenly the face is so close to his that he feels spit spraying down on him. "You don't want to know," says the face, and splits into a cruel grin. "Might've been better you didn't wake up at all."
He wants to wipe the spit from his skin, wants to strike at the face, wants to shake the man and demand answers—but to his horror he finds he cannot lift his arms. He struggles, tries to move his arms, legs, anything. He can't. Can't move, can't…breath anymore, can't think through the rising fog, can't…can't…
Can't hear anything but a whirr, a sizzling buzzing that grows louder and louder and drowns out everything: sounds, sights, thoughts—even though that doesn't make any sense at all, but he's gone far beyond sense already. His skin is prickling, he's hot and cold at the same time, and tired and panicking; and he hurts, hurts so much, and he's falling, falling back, down, falling, falling…
ooOoo