The dull smell of sterile instruments and neatly cleaned sheets burned through the boys nose as his senses became keenly aware of their surroundings. His eye fluttered open to confirm with sight with what he smelt, a hospital.
No…no. A room.
The beep of machines was absent and the small area seemed familiar, not foreign and cold, as it should have been if he were in a facility. And above all else, his mutilated eye sent hot flashes of pain to every inch of the young life. Standard procedure would've plucked the pain away with various drugs and drips. But no tubes ran to the boy. Standard would've applied, had there been order to the room. Instruments were scattered on the back counters and the drip of the sink synchronized with the steady tick of the hanging clock on the back wall. The delicate woodcarvings in the timepiece were too personal, too particular to make this a random place.
The boy was thankful of the eye patch, least of all, to hide his wound. The emptiness he felt in the optical cave of his right side thwarted any hope of being able to see out of that eye again. With consciousness came thoughts in great numbers, swarming and collecting in the boys mind.
His soul began to twinge, taking on a familiar feeling as the shadows seeped out of the youth. His stolen eye became numb and the pain slowly vanished when the room faded to a calming darkness.
When the shadows parted Muraki could finally make out where he was. For a second, he was sure he could see through the damaged eye, even through the black sheen patch. Perhaps phantom sight, if there was such a thing. The faux sterile whiteness of the walls showed signs of definite age; corners peeling, shadowing stains where shelves and other installments used to be.
The room meant to be abandoned.
As Muraki too, should have been abandoned.
But there was something righteous about the cream walls and the steady clock on the wall. So much resentment, so much sadness seeped from the young boy, and in this room, he felt it would be the last time he felt such things.
The next thing he noticed brought a knowing smile to his face. The stale cigar scent that made the walls cream and not a true white filled his delayed senses.
"Grandpa…" the boy squeezed out of his damaged throat, and smiled.