Seven Days of Falling
chapter two
"In The Dark"
The thick bars at the front of his cell were rusted and cold to the touch. He curled his fingers around them, peering out into the darkness ahead.
The pathway separating his cell from the line of cells across from him remained silent except for the occasional cough or rustle of clothing.
It was difficult to make out any details. At first, he had suspected the cells immediately surrounding him were unoccupied, but now, having sat at the same spot since waking up an hour previously, he knew without a doubt that there was someone in the cell across from him.
He called out through the bars, but heard nothing except the echo of his own words through the shadows, and the noise both comforted and confused him.
It was obviously his voice, but he could not remember ever having heard it before today.
He rested his head on the bars, closing his eyes in thought. He wished that he could remember why he was here. Every time he tried to recall, he felt a promising tingle at the edges of his mind, but that feeling never led to any great epiphany no matter how long or hard he focused on it.
He wanted to know why he was covered in blood and why the pain in his stomach and leg refused to leave. His knuckles were raw and his hands bruised, and blood stained the inside of his palm where his fingernails had punctured the skin. He couldn't remember having gotten in a fight, yet the condition of his hands and the soreness of his arms suggested he had been trying—quite violently—to punch something. It was a ridiculous thought because he was certain he had never gotten into a brawl with anything his life, yet his body ached in multiple places, and the dried blood where his skin had ruptured was scabbing up in a way that made it painful to move.
It felt like something—or multiple somethings—had purposely tried to hurt him. This seemed the most likely explanation, for he couldn't imagine ever wanting to inflict this sort of pain on himself. But aside from images of the metal bars on which he was leaning and the small stone room he resided in, his mind remained frustratingly blank.
Maybe he had been trying to defend himself, and, having not ever resorted to violence before, had been overcome by the enemy.
But why had they brought him here? Why had they wanted to hurt him?
He lifted his head again. "I know that you're there," he said to the darkened cell across from him. "Whoever you are." His voice cracked on the last word, and he stopped to run his tongue over his chapped lips, tasting blood there. He swallowed thickly, his throat stinging from thirst.
He did not know what else to do but wait.
—.—
Nothing could compare to the relief he felt when the bars of his cell slid open. He was so relieved that he overcame the pain in his legs in order to stand, but as soon as he stepped outside the cell, he was grabbed roughly by the arms, any further progress he might have made halted by two demons holding onto him.
"Why am I here?" he asked. "What is this place?" He peered up at the demons alternatively, expecting an answer, but none came. Their faces were a pale, sickening green, their brows heavy, and their mouths set into straight lines as they slammed the now-empty cell shut and proceeded down the dark corridor, subsequently taking him as well.
"Please," he said, as they pulled him along by the arms. "I don't remember anything, I need you to explain what's happening." The vertical state of his body was causing blood the rush to his unhealed wound. He resorted to hopping awkwardly on one foot, which wouldn't have been difficult, except these demons were taller than him and thus taking bigger steps than he was. In his efforts to keep up pace, he stumbled again and again until he finally fell, slipping out of their hold and falling to the floor. He landed on all fours, crying out at the shock of the impact on his hurt leg.
He wasn't given a chance to catch his breath before being torn from the ground by a solid arm around his torso. He scrambled aimlessly in the hold of the demon who had grabbed him, hissing in pain as the pressure on the gash in his stomach increased. "Stop!" he gasped, struggling more vigorously as they neared the end of the corridor. "Put me down!"
They came to a halt at a massive door, and as the other demon moved to unbolt it, all protests were drowned out by the horrendous creaking of the metal hinges as they opened, and whatever pain he was experiencing was quickly tempered by apprehension and curiosity when the demons stepped through to the other side.
—.—
"Drink this."
The woman thrust a plain cup of clear liquid into his hands before turning away again to attend to a table against the wall. Atop the wooden surface sat a collection of vials and flasks of varying sizes and contents, none of which he could make out specifically.
He peered curiously into the cup in his hands. "What is this?" he asked.
"Water."
Maybe if the circumstances had been different, he wouldn't have trusted her answer. But in his current state of dehydration, he was desperate enough to trust the word of just about anyone, and without further hesitation, he eagerly gulped down the liquid, carefully licking the last drops of moisture from his lips when he had finished, taking a moment to observe his surroundings.
They were in a small room—"they" being the woman, himself, and the two demon guards who had carried him there. Like the tiny cell he had come from, this place was cold and gray, being made entirely of stone. But unlike his cell, it actually had furniture—the table, some old wooden chairs, and a cot, which he was currently sitting on.
The woman was walking back toward him again, and he held out the empty cup to her. "I want more," he said.
"You can't have more right now."
"Why not?"
"I have to tend to your wounds."
The woman's hair was thick, ginger, and reached mid-way down her chest, standing out against the dark material of her kimono. Her skin was pale and she was hardly any taller or larger than he was, though for some reason the lunkish guards seemed to respect her. Her expression was solemn, her eyes downcast as she began unwinding the black fabric which was wrapped around his wounded stomach. Large amounts of blood had dried there, sealing the fabric to his skin so that removal was tedious and painful. After much protest and complaint on his part, she finally managed to tear off the last shred of material and set about wiping away the excess blood with a damp cloth.
"What happened to me?" he asked her.
Her face was stern and unreadable. "I don't know," she said, not unkindly.
"But how did I get here?"
His query was met with silence.
She opened a mysterious jar and dipped her hand into it, immersing her fingers in a thick creamy substance, which she then proceeded smear over the red, raw flesh that stretched from the bottom of his ribcage to below his navel. He hissed at the burning sensation that followed, digging his fingers into the thin white lining of the cot.
"Those jewels around your neck," she said, her voice taking his mind off of the physical pain. "They're quite beautiful."
He looked down at the pair of luminescent gems which hung on thin cords around his neck. They looked expensive, and he wondered how he had acquired them.
"I wish I could remember something about myself," he said.
"You don't have to worry about that," the woman replied. "Here, that doesn't matter."
"What doesn't matter?"
"Anything. Everything."
"Where is 'here'?"
"A place with other people like you."
"You mean people who can't remember who they are? Can you not remember who you are either? Is that why you're here?"
She looked directly at his face, and for a split second her eyes thinned in a way that told him she didn't appreciate that question at all, but any semblance of irritation was quickly purged and her expression neutralized. She took the cup from his hand, walked with it back to the table of flasks, and returned it to him a moment later, full to the top.
Too elated at having been given more water, he did not press her on the last question and, instead, began to drink.
"The concept of living here is very simple," said the woman as she set about tearing the fabric stuck to his wounded leg. "Do your job without complaint and you will receive one meal a day and a place to sleep." She paused after tearing the top of his pant leg free from the clotted blood. "You won't be needing these," she announced, pulling off each of his boots in turn and letting them fall to the floor. She then removed his entire pant leg from the thigh down and tossed it to the side.
Throughout this process, he couldn't completely abandon the feeling that something about this entire situation was awry, but his mind was cloudy and refused to consider the problem any further than the fact that there was one. An almost sleep-inducing feeling of relaxation was beginning to overtake him, making the promise of a place to sleep incredibly alluring.
He set the again-empty cup aside. "What is my job?" he asked.
"To do what you're told."
She smeared more of the creamy substance onto his wounded thigh, but this time he didn't feel like putting in the effort of protesting. He merely grimaced at the subsequent stinging sensation and considered her words as carefully as he could.
It was simple, so simple that he was sure it couldn't be right. And yet . . . the point didn't seem worth arguing. In his state of identity confusion, the simplicity of this woman's rules was comforting, for it meant that his lack of self-understanding gave him no reason to panic.
Do what he was told.
Yes, he thought. That seemed reasonable enough.