It was a sound that woke him. No, not a sound. A scent? No… he can't quite tell… he can't quite…
It's all over the place. What is? His mind? No, he doesn't know. Or does he? Yes, he does- he's confused.
How long has it been? Minutes? Hours? How does one untouched by time feel its silent passage? Perhaps he should start by opening his eyes…?
Yes. He'll do that.
Darkness. Nothing but darkness. He's blind. Who took his eyes?
He takes a quick breath, a knee-jerk reaction. Mildew… dead things and growing things alike, intertwined as closely as lovers.
His throat feels full… no, his entire skull is full. Of what?
Dirt.
He coughs and chokes, panics when no air fills his lungs, only the cloying earth. He bucks, writhing and rolling and shuddering. He's drowning, drowning, drowning…and suddenly… suddenly he emerges.
As he bursts from the ground, tearing away the hardened earth with fingers curled into claws, he hacks and coughs and doubles over, clearing his body of the thick sludge that had lain stagnant in his body for… minutes, hours, months, he doesn't know. He doesn't know he doesn't know he doesn't…
He breathes his first real breath of air, gasping like a drowned man. He tears at his eyes, dragging away dirt and moss and vines and then there is light, blinding and terrible and as venomous as fire.
It's magnificent.
He's frozen, stiffly staring up into the blue sky. A vulture wheels miles above him. Its golden eyes dismiss him as quickly as they look at him.
Slowly, so so slowly, he crawls from his grave. The wood had rotted away long ago, mere sawdust coating his body.
What happened… no. He can't think right now. He doesn't want to. No.
He takes another breath to calm his raging mind and stills, rigidly silent.
And then he's off, dashing through the forest. Trees fall before him, clipped by his shoulders, and the ground cracks beneath his feet. And then he's falling upon a bobcat, its life ended before it had even registered the danger.
Sweet, sweet liquid flows down his throat, washing away the dirt of his grave. It's the most magnificent feeling he's ever experienced, this amazing meal. He holds the animal closer, buries his face into its fur as he continues to suckle from its torn throat.
So magnificent. Not as good as… no. Don't think about that. No.
When the red stops pouring, he reverently sets the animal aside, though he continues to stroke its fur. So soft… has he ever felt anything quite as fine?
Time passes. He only knows it does because the bobcat's corpse slowly withers away in his hands, carried away by ants and worms and cautious buzzards. When he holds not but bones, he finally stands.
He looks down at himself and feels a mild form of surprise. His uniform lays in tatters off of him, moth-eaten and dirty… god, if the Colonel saw him like this, he'd tan his hide- that stern old man had bucked and gagged men for less.
He runs his hands through his matted hair.
He had to get back to his troops before they labeled him a deserter.
Walking in a circle reveals nothing. He doesn't recognize… anything. These woods are featureless, never-ending.
Is this hell? Did he take a slug to the head and he isn't even aware of it?
But then there's a silhouette in the distance, approaching like a fog.
It's an… angel? No. He-… he doesn't feel right.
His throat feels like it's tearing apart. Has he swallowed a hive of bees? What is happening to him?
The figure hesitates. Her short-cropped hair sways against her chin in the softly-stirring breeze.
She says something… but he doesn't- he doesn't understand?
But…
He feels better when he rips her head from her body. Flinging it away as far as he can, he stumbles away from the creature's twitching body.
He needs to get back to his troops. His troops… he needs to go home. Back to his ma and pa and his baby sister. He needs…
He needs to find his home.
If it comes off as neurotic and running in circles and hard to follow- good! Our boy's mind isn't quite… right. Let me know if I should continue.
Some history notes:
A Major is third in command. Colonel is first, followed by Lieutenant Colonel.
Bucking and Gagging was a punishment employed during the civil war. The wrong-doer had his hands tied at his shins and his feet tied together at the ankles. A rod or stick was then shoved over the arms and under the knees and he was gagged with a cloth where he would sit utterly immobile for hours. Even minor offenses would warrant this punishment. Described by one soldier as 'jaw-clenching, molar-grinding agony'…
-Iva :)