His world had been smell and touch for ages, limited to one room and the sounds of machinery that fed him, kept him alive and trapped at the same time. He vaguely remembered the world being different, being able to see things, to run, to grab, to manipulate. The memories were distant and blurry, half forgotten and mostly replaced by the darkness and the smell of antiseptics. Pain was a constant too, throbbing in his chest, his abdomen, burning inside his veins or slithering through his nerves.
At first he had screamed, alternatively cursing and then begging for them to stop, but he grew hoarse and there was no reply. Slowly, he gave in and simply endured what came: the constant operations, the nurses? tending to him and the immutable pain.
Nothing suggested that this day would be any different. He felt the warmth on his face, indicating that one of his caretakers had drawn back the curtains and that it would be morning. Sometimes he tried to ask what was going on outside or guess, but he hardly ever got any solid answers. Mostly, he remained silent, wishing he could break free, wishing that the pain would stop.
The caretaker continued the daily rituals, unceremoniously prying away the blanket covering his frame and inspecting him with uncaring hands. Silently, he endured. Suddenly, the hands froze and pulled away, a startled yelp breaking the silence.
Somebody else was in the room. A presence overwhelmed everything, the sound of steps filling his ears. A large hand—as large as his own used to be—touched his forehead, brushing away his hair from his empty eye sockets.
"Who-" he started to ask, his voice hoarse with disuse, but the other interrupted him.
"Shh, my son. Sleep for now."
His world, as limited as it was, faded. The pain, the discomfort, all disappeared as the words echoed in his mind.
AN: And on this positive note, we will be returning to Kharn and his interview.