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Drops of Blood
The scent was familiar…and yet he couldn't place it. The wind whistled in the silence. A branch cracked occasionally—but other than that nothing. And that scent. What was it? It was dark and he couldn't see. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see. And that scent was driving him crazy. He knew he should recognize it, but he couldn't think why. Actually, he could hardly think at all. He realized that he didn't even remember where he was. It was cold—so cold. And that scent again. Blood. That's what the scent was. He should have known that right away. The coppery scent was clogging his senses. It surrounded him, choked him…persuaded him to remember…Remember what? Where was he? What had happened? And why couldn't he remember?
Dark. Everything was so dark. His eyesight—his mind. Everything was blank except something nagging at the back of his brain. A little inkling that told him that if he did remember it would drive him insane. He knew it was something important—something that had to do with the blood…. But, he didn't want to remember. It was safer in the dark.
He was alone. And that thought echoed through his head. The feelings of loneliness and loss swept over him so intensely that it made him gasp. He was alone and the blood wasn't his. The blood wasn't his. But, he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to know whose it was. The name was on the tip of his tongue but he forced it back. He forced himself to forget—to succumb to the oblivion that was sweeping over him. And deep in the comfort of a zone he knew no more…