I am not a dreamer. I don't really think about the future. I guess that's what comes with not really having a past. I do have a past, it's not like I was born yesterday or anything. It's just that I don't have roots.
I suppose I could have become fixated on those roots, dreaming about who my parents are, trying to imagine faces and voices of the people responsible for my existence, but I was never really into that. I'm here, they're not, end of story.
So I don't really have a goal in life. And it's not exactly like the world is my oyster. I can't really do much here. I really do thing that the neighbors like to fantasize about my dying horrifically. So I could just work at the bar for the rest of my life, or I could go travel, I guess. But I'm not really looking for anything, so I don't really see much point.
I'm not a dreamer.
But that's what makes this weird. I know that I'm dreaming. It's the only explanation for what's happening. First off, I am floating in an ocean of ale. As someone who has worked in a bar for most of my life I can assure you that ale does not exist in oceans, no matter how much we may wish that it did.
The second thing is that I'm made of light. A thick, heavy light, one that has the consistency of syrup. Now I know light is, well, light. Hence the name. But I am for certain heavy and made of light.
I'm floating in this ocean of ale on my back. All I can here is a whisper of sound. It's soft and gentle. I listen harder. It sounds… familiar, almost like a song. I want to hum along with it but the tune escapes me.
A ball of light appears in the sky. It just winks itself into existence. And with it comes a one crystal clear note. Then another light appears. This one is red instead of green. It also hums. Then another one, then another one. There are seven in all. I smile a bit. I don't really know why. I guess I just like the lights.
But something's wrong. They grow quiet. The ocean changes. Its not ale. It smells odd, coppery almost. Like blood. I want to make the lights brighter. I go to call to them, to ask them how to help them glow. Claws and ice wrap around my legs and pull me under. I twist and yell, swearing and screaming. The claws crawl up my body, slowly and softly. The tips just barely press into me skin. I swing at them, trying to dislodge them, but I hit nothing. I can't breathe. I don't want to die. They pin my shoulders. I start screaming as loud as I can.
"Hold him still!"
Something soft is shoved into my mouth. It tastes like old boot. I want to spit it out but I can't. My teeth seem to have lodged themselves into it. I think it has something to do with pain. Everywhere hurts.
"You have him?" I know I know that voice… I should be able to place it. I try to look around but everything's a bit blurred around the edges. A huge bulk is pinning my shoulders. I think another one might I have my feet. I am not really sure if they are helping me or trying to hurt me.
Then my arm explodes.
Molten pain zigs up my arm and into the rest of my body. It hurts so bad I can't scream. My arm is pulsing with fire and lightening. I try to fight, to get away, but I'm so weak. It hurts so bad. I can feel the heat from tears running down the sides of my face.
A voice starts insisting that it will be okay. If this is what leads to okay I'd hate to find out what his definition of not okay is. I try to jerk away but my torso fills with agony. I scream through the leather, biting so hard I'm sure it will snap in half.
"By Din I said hold him!" I know that voice well enough to know it should not be hurting me. But it was. It mutters angrily. The leather is torn out of my mouth. I try to struggle but a firm hand grabs my jaw. A liquid is poured into my mouth. It tastes weird. Sweet like flowers yet bitter like medicine. I sputter. I think most of the liquid runs down my face instead of my throat. More is poured and my nose is pinched. I swallow, desperate for air.
The hands let go of me. I'm drifting, fading. Maybe I'm dying. Maybe I'm heading back to that dream. I don't really know. I don't really care. I don't fight, hoping I'll be carried to somewhere where I won't hurt.
***
"So you are finally awake." It's more of a statement than a question.
I carefully turn my head. The room spins anyway. I shut my eyes, hoping to regain some sense of stillness.
"Now no falling asleep just yet. It is imperative that you remain conscious until my business here is concluded." I knew I knew that voice. I open my eyes to look at Dr. Lohan. He looks, well, the same as always I guess. He may have a few more worry lines, which are most likely my fault.
He strides over to me, leaving his little bag of tricks on the table. He starts doing what doctors do. Normally I'd try to pay attention and learn as much as I could, but normally my stomach hasn't decided it wants to explore the rest of the world without me. So I just lay still as his hands dance over me, touching this and poking that. Every once and a while he noise, one of those sounds adults use when they are pretending they understand. You know, "hmmms" and "ahs." Those little noises.
I actually prefer it when Dr. Lohan speaks. He has a nice voice. It's rich and warm. So are his eyes. If mine are fish filled pools his are melted chocolate. When he's frustrated they even swirl. No seriously, its true.
Well, he finally finishes doing the doctor thing and gives a little nod, like alls right with the world. He then ignores my body and looks me in the eyes. "It looks as though you will survive." Um, yay? That's a really unnerving way to start a conversation. "You suffered a lesion along your scalp which required several stitches and broke several ribs and cracked a few more, as well as having sprained your shoulder and ankle. Your right wrist is broken. Luckily you are left handed, so that should not pose too much of an issue for you. You also incurred an impressive concussion, which is why you may be experiencing some dizziness and nausea. You have been unconscious for three days. Now for the bad news." That was the good news? Crap. "You were administered a healing potion, but it was not soon enough to have an optimal effect nor was it of the highest potency. Therefore you will need to have bed rest for at least a month, though I would prefer to keep you immobile for another fortnight after that."
Considering everything that wasn't actually bad news. I doubt I could leave this bed right now even if I wanted. But there are a few things I need to know. "Talen?" My voice escapes as a creaky whisper. I sound like the rusty hinges on an old chest.
Dr. Lohan clucks his tongue. "Do not worry. He is well. His wound had been treated. I would have him come in here, but unfortunately I slipped him a sleeping draught, which will not wear off for at least another three hours. It was to treat his sleep deprivation, you see. But I will most assuredly inform him that you were awake." Dr. Lohan is a wee bit scary. I like the guy, but he can take his job a little to seriously.
Dr. Lohan moves back to the table, talking as he pours powders and liquids into a small cup. "Now I need you to drink this mixture. It contains something for the pain as well as some medicine designed to increase the rate of healing." He slowly starts to pour the concoction down my gullet. It tastes awful, sour with an aftertaste that winds you. I choke it down as best as I can. He smiles, satisfied with my performance.
"Excellent. Now I will see you again when you reawaken." I blink. He slipped me a sleeping draught? The sly dog. I open my mouth to protest, but it turns into a yawn. I still have questions. But I feel the darkness of a dreamless sleep closing in. I guess they can wait until morning.
