If you're going through hell, keep going
- Winston Churchill
4.
The memories come in the smell. He knows this smell.
It's the smell of a benign mould that drove him into a panic years ago; he was convinced it was toxic. It's the smell of musty air, despite his countless attempts to fashion some sort of ventilation system. It's the faint undertone of excrement and garbage; the smell will fade away in a few hours—he only notices it because he's been gone for so long.
Not a dream, then. He heaves a deep breath, and movement erupts around him. Even though his eyes are closed, he can feel their presence as they peer intently down at him. It's not often he is in this position: the patient, instead of the doctor.
"Is he awake?" A voice, hushed with trepidation and fear—so sweet in its familiarity
"Shh." A gloriously recognizable whisper. "I don't think so. Let him rest. He's been through a lot."
"Goddamn Bishop," comes the well-known growl. He can feel the corners of his mouth pull into a small smile. All he can manage at the moment. "The bastard wasn't even there. I swear to God—"
"Shh! You'll wake him. Let him rest."
The bickering moves off, and for a moment he is miserable for it. But he knows that soon he will have the strength to awaken. They won't be far.
Feeling starts to ebb into his body. An intense soreness in his abdomen. Stiffness in his muscles. He can feel bruises around his wrists and ankles from where the leather straps bound him. But he is free now, and he is glad for this pain. It means he survived.
The nothingness begins to creep back, and he doesn't fear it this time. He knows he will come out of it soon. This is his well-deserved rest.
His heart beats calmly in his chest.
Alive, alive, alive.
FIN.