Annabel: Thank you so, so much to my reviewers for the first chapter, I appreciate getting feedback on this sort of thing.
Anyway, keep R&Ring… this chapter is a bit illogical and sounds kind of strange to me, but… read it anyway 'cause otherwise you won't understand lots of stuff coming up. And that would be bad for reviews – lots of people being confused and having their heads blow up would not be good critiquing. :D
"Ahh! Go away, don't hurt me!" cried Mr Walden as the figure woozily raised itself into a sitting position. The albino blinked his red eyes to examine his surroundings. Finding them unfamiliar, he swivelled his head to the direction of the hysterical screaming. He'd woken with a mild headache and the screaming wasn't helping.
The source of the screaming appeared to be an averagely built man with trimmed brown hair standing behind him, who became all the more distressed as the albino's gaze fixed him with puzzled curiosity, which, mutated by his reddish eyes, seemed to Mr Walden to be a vicious glare. With two of his fingers, one from each hand, he formed the symbol of the crucifix and backed away. "Stay back, ghost!"
Realising he would get no help here, the albino decided it might be a good time to leave. He was in some sort of odd white casket – gripping the sides he started to lift himself out.
Mr Walden abruptly decided to go home early.
The albino, now with his bare feet on the floor, watched him go – his muscles were too stiff to do any pursuit just yet. He feebly raised an arm but knew it wasn't going to do anything.
How did I get here? he wondered, looking around. What happened to me?
And a sudden, sickening feeling that made his throat feel constricted.
Who am I?
There was a stab of pain in his side as he shifted his pose slightly. He looked down.
Though the blood was dried, the wound was still flaming pain. He didn't want to pick off the scab and risk infecting the wound just to see how big it really was – but he suspected it was serious.
Tentatively, he tried a few steps. He could do it, but he was slow, and the momentum of the movement of his legs cut into his side.
I need help.
But where could he get help? There was nobody here, and no means of contact he could use to get it. He was going to have to walk again. Bracing himself for the effort, he suddenly stopped as a fleeting thought filled his mind. A Christian cross – a church, the dim figure of a man standing in the doorway.
The Bishop will help me.
He blinked. The Bishop? He didn't understand the flashback – it had been too brief for him to note all the finicky details. Was it even real? It could have been a memory of a dream, but it didn't seem like that. It was so vivid, so absolute. It couldn't have been anything other than a memory.
The only problem was he had no idea what the vision was trying to tell him.
I am going to get out of here first, and then I can think about it.
He didn't like this place – it reeked of disinfectant covering the smell of death. Every time he touched something he felt like the smell was on him as well. It was like being in a hospital or something to the same effect.
Limiting his movement so the pain in his side was at a minimum extent, he held himself up by gripping anything that would support his weight. After what seemed like a ridiculously long time, he was in the hallway. It was a grim and depressing place – white tiling covering the floor and walls until, at waist height – for him at least – it continued with grey hessian. Plastic lampshades harbouring light bulbs formed a spaced line along the ceiling. The lights were off, and the albino found it hard to see. But the windowed double-doors at the end of the hallway allowed light to sift through their frosted glass, rich with the promise of escape. If he hadn't been able to see that light, he felt he might have collapsed right then and there. Given up forever.
He fell against one of the doors, flakes of dried blood dislodging themselves from his hand as he broke his fall with them. He was lucky the door didn't swing open.
Taking hold of the door handle, he pressed the button on it so it would lock after he had gone through. After opening the door, he stepped out into the Parisian night.
Bright lights and city sounds overwhelmed his senses. They seemed to roll out of nowhere like an unanticipated wave, and he had to close his eyes. The building he'd just come out of was near a very busy road, but there were few people on the sidewalk at this time of night. It was late, he could tell from the sky, but he could tell little else. A gust of cold wind reached him and he instantly regretted locking the door behind him.
I'm going to have to find somewhere to sleep or I'm going to freeze.
And another memory hit him. Actually, several memories. They seemed to appear sequentially, bursting into his mind like fireworks before fading and bursting into the next one. He remembered first a dimly lit room, and angry, foreboding footsteps heading toward him. Then he remembered a damp alleyway at night, crawling behind a rubbish bin. The basement of an abandoned warehouse… a cell, prison-style bunks on the wall… and finally, a memory of himself… lying in wet grass, bleeding and praying.
They didn't seem like real memories and they didn't make any sense. But in his mind they were all cold. It was immediate motivation to find shelter. He stumbled onto the footpath and started staggering down the street. He ignored the pain in his side. He was sure he could do worse.
A man in baggy pants and a sweater walked past him, frowning at him. The albino looked back at him, but said nothing. Anyone who looked at him like he was a rabid freak wasn't going to help him.
I need someone with a phone I can use, he thought. But the other pedestrians were equally unfriendly and the albino stood helplessly outside the building, wondering what to do. He was beginning to feel woozy and sat down on the steps. Then he saw it.
Could his luck really be that good? There, at the bottom of the steps was a shining silver coin, just enough to get him a phone call. He plunged forward at it, gripping it between his finger and thumb. He knelt and swivelled his head round. There was a telephone box not too far away. Unbelievable luck. Unbelievable.
He stood and limped over to the phone box, stepping inside and practically seizing the phone and jamming the coin into the slot. He dialled the emergency number and asked, in a broken, guttural voice, for the hospital.
"Allo?" asked a voice on the other end of the line. The albino was beginning to feel dizzy.
"I am… I…" he muttered.
"Excuse me, sir, we can't hear you," was the response. It was a feminine voice.
"I am in a telephone box on… I do not know what street it is … and…"
"Well, if you require assistance it would be a great help if you knew where you were," said the voice in an annoyed fashion. "Any land marks?"
"Okay, I will just…"
He looked back at the building he had just come out of. He felt the blood draining from his already white face and a stutter of confused disbelief escaped his mouth.
"Hello?"
"I am in front of the city morgue and I cannot…"
A wave of dizziness slammed him in the head. With a mumble of, "Ohh…" he collapsed in the phone booth, his legs seeming to collapse beneath him, unable to support his weight. He dropped the phone, his body twisting slightly to the side so his head cracked against the wall of the box, knocking him unconscious. He could not hear the frantic voices on the other end of the line and was oblivious to the wailing sirens. He did not feel the desperate hands lifting him onto the stretcher into the ambulance. He felt nothing in his tormented sleep, dreamless and empty.
Woo! Tension. Yes, "the albino" is Silas (who else would it be?), only he doesn't know that yet. I am working on the next chapter as we speak. My calculating mind can say little other than there will be more Bishop-ness soon. Keep reviewing!
(I fear I will not be able to keep up this amnesiac thing for very long, it is becoming tiresome referring to Silas constantly as "him" or "the albino".)
