Disclaimer: I do not own "Spaceman." Any music used for inspiration is the sole property of The Killers, I am simply borrowing some of their ideas for a plotline. Reviews are love :D Next chapter will be longer, I promise...for some reason my first chapters are always shorter than all the others.
White light floods my doorway. I instinctively sit up and wrap the sheets tighter around me. The light is blinding; it sears my pupils until they ache with every pulse. Each fresh pump is laced with pain, and I can hear it thrum in my head like a muffled drumbeat. I dare to open my eyes into tiny slits, and the white penetrates everything, bleaching even my dark hair. I feel thin and transparent, like saran-wrap.
I hear a series of small beeps. My brain tries to comprehend, but falters, tripping over itself like a slinky on the stairs. I am nothing but white. No nerve endings, no thoughts, no dreams, not even a name. For some reason, the missing name bothers me more than anything else. The ice shards of my mind scramble and try to fit together as they frantically search, but they're incomplete, like an infuriating puzzle with one missing piece. They rearrange and shuffle, making new patterns and twisting over each other, but the edges refuse to meet. The cogs won't mesh.
Something picks me up, gentle yet firm with purpose. I can't feel this, but somehow, I know. Even though I am blind and deaf, mute and psychopathic, I simply know, and for some reason this is as logical and second-nature as knowing the alphabet.
The mere mention of the alphabet jostles my brain again, and the meaning of the word escapes me. I should know it, but I don't, just the way my hair should have hurt when they grabbed me, but didn't. The wrongness of this strikes me, yet there's nothing I can do about it. My thoughts are like butterflies on a mobile, trying to fly but caught on a string.
I consider letting go. This amoeba situation is uncomfortable. What's the use of trying to remember when I can't recall what remember means anymore? I can feel myself expand like an egg on a frying pan, and it would be so nice to stretch out, to let the white flush me away. I think of the theory of the universe, how it exploded and broke apart into being and just kept spreading. It doesn't seem so bad, to be a small part of something and yet be all of it at the same time.
I take a hint from the universe and break away, drifting until I am nothing but a twinkling star in the complex galaxy of Me.