The Man With His Mouth Sewn Shut
Synopsis: Loki finds himself back on Midgard, suffering from various instances of retrograde amnesia. He doesn't know how he got there, where he came from, where he's going... but what he does know is that he hurts. (Probably a series of one-shots. May end up with some Tony/Loki or Loki/OC? We'll see.)
Chapter One - But They Don't Know Me Like I Do
The room is dark, for the most part, and the only illumination comes from thin tendrils of morning sunlight lazily working their way through the window-shades. This room is built from the traditional four walls: a king-sized bed is placed centre of one wall, with a side-table on its left. A low chest of drawers is on another, opposite the wall with the windows. A built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors spans the last wall, reflecting the room's image all over again.
Everything in this room stands practically empty, including the unmade bed.
On the floor beside the bed, still trapped in a tangle of sheets, lies the figure of a man. His chest rises and falls as he breathes - heavily - and occasionally, his body jerks a little, fighting off some invisible enemy. He is lost in the throes of a terrible nightmare, and not even the blaring of car horns outside has managed to rouse him. Not yet.
Eventually, he will wake, but he will not remember the awful visions that plagued his dreams. It is a blessing that he does not fully appreciate - he says, in his waking hours, that he wishes he could recall the things that made him so reluctant to fall asleep each night. Yet if he did, he would never sleep at all for fear of revisiting all the things he knows he's forgotten.
Above the chest of drawers, there are a series of rough pencil sketches. The man is by no means an artist, but his depictions are easily recognizable. There is:
A partially damaged Tower - with a capital T - nestled on the same pristine skyline as the Chrysler Building.
An elegant woman, her head held high and proud, her flowing gown swishing about her ankles as she walks down a long hallway.
A furious monster, nothing more than a hulking great mass of muscle - it vaguely resembles a disproportionate human, if you look for long enough.
A cube, just a cube, with no shading or other details.
A set of rather stylised self-portraits.
A full-body continuation based upon a newspaper clipping of a bulky blonde man, who clings to a glorified hammer as if his life depends on it.
These are, apparently, some of the things that he remembers. Pinned alongside the sketches are numerous lists, vastly differing in length. Some are hastily scribbled, others are neatly penned in his perfect cursive script. He doesn't know what the majority of it means, but he's made a habit of recording the vague snippets he can draw out from his subconscious. There is a small, battered journal under his pillow, which holds even more of his confused memories - and, of course, a pen.
The old saying holds true: silence is golden. Unfortunately, golden things are increasing in both expense and rarity these days, and are possessed only by those who can afford such luxuries. The man on the ground cannot; he is startled from his restless sleep by the incessant chiming of a generic cellphone alarm, and he flails about further, trying to locate the damned device without having to get up from the floor. Giving up, he shoves the sheets off his body, revealing his tall, lean form - but he covers himself up again quite quickly with a robe he retrieves from the floor. The phone is on his bedside table, vibrating as it rings, and he silences it by ripping the battery out in sheer frustration. It is effective, but perhaps not worth the effort it'll require to reset the date and time on it later.
He promptly throws himself onto the bed, and curls himself up as small as he can. Nobody can see him here, nobody can judge him for taking comfort in such little things. He pulls the knotted blankets over his body, then pushes them straight back off again, finding them almost stifling. He contents himself with just lying there - his nightmare brought no new information, so there is nothing for him to record in the small journal. And besides, it is a Sunday. He can be forgiven for not wanting to do anything at all on a Sunday.
Later, around noon, he wakes again after yet another fitful sleep, and finally decides to get up. He draws back the curtains covering his bedroom windows - the Sun is still persistently shining, and he blinks a couple of times before his eyes adjust themselves. Despite the warm weather, he dresses in a black Henley and a pair of dark skinny jeans, covering as much of his pale skin as possible. He doesn't like to look at himself anymore... not that he can recall a time when he was ever that happy with his appearance. He remembers feeling inadequate, always.
The people he has met during his excursions around the city - especially the women - would be inclined to disagree. But then again, they have no idea what really lies beneath the layers of clothing. They think he is extremely Sun-sensitive, whatever that means, and they do not recall him ever having had a tan. It doesn't matter. What they don't know can't hurt them.
But it can still hurt him.
Because whatever he may have looked like in the past cannot possibly be that awful - not compared to the sight he is faced with when he sees himself now. From his neck to his toes, his body is a canvas covered in jagged scars. Some resemble symbols he swears he's seen before, but the majority of them are nothing more than cruel, haphazardly-placed cuts. His wrists are the worst part: subconsciously, in his sleep, he still tears at the invisible cuffs that must've once been as real as the pain he wakes up to each morning. The rest of the scars, at least, have healed.
Some of them he remembers - the shallow one on his chin, from where he careened into a stone bench, or the patchy one on his elbow from a nasty fall.
Some of them can be put down to his own stupidity.
Some of them are easy to interpret - this one was made with a knife, that one with something harsher.
The rest remain a mystery to him, like the perfectly symmetrical curved lines that wrap around his arms, legs and fingers.
Then he stands for a moment, and contents himself with studying the familiar view from his window. It is the same skyline he has sketched in the picture above his chest of drawers, but the buildings surrounding the Tower are more damaged than in his dreams.
Author's Notes:
Well, there's the first chapter! This has been too long in coming, honestly... I really enjoyed writing this (though the posting process is just as huge of a hassle as I remembered).
Thank you all so much for reading - your feedback would be greatly appreciated, of course. This is a sort of 'introductory' chapter to the story - it gets more interesting from here, as do the ideas in my head. I just had to lay down the basics. I'll get some of the other chapters written out as quickly as I can, but I can't promise weekly updates like some authors do. I'm still quite busy with school... never, EVER take three entirely coursework-based subjects at once! Maybe in a couple of months, when I'm on break again, I might be able to post more regularly. We'll see!
Massive thanks to L. Laufeyson - without you, this story wouldn't even be here. Go read her story, Warning Signs - I promise it's more awesome than mine! :)
Before anyone asks, I do have a tumblr - it's loooooooki, with seven O's. Follow me at your own risk!
Love always,
Em xx