Cold.
The sharpness of it crawled across every inch of his body like a swarm of angry, icy needles. A spasm tore through his muscles as his body jolted violently, gasping, sucking in air with a desperate, strangled cough. His lungs, brittle and dry, felt as though they were lined with shards of glass, unable to process the air he was pulling in.
The stabbing cold twisted deeper, a blanket of frost sinking under his skin. Every nerve screamed, burning and numb at the same time, every movement forcing those needles deeper. His body convulsed, arms jerking uncontrollably against the hard surface beneath him, his fingers clawing at the cold steel slab.
His eyelids squeezed shut as his head throbbed with a blinding, pulsing pain. There was no thought, just unfiltered agony flooding through him, forcing every muscle to spasm as though something had rewired his body wrong, turned him inside out, ripping his flesh from bone. His joints cracked, popped, and burned as his limbs contorted, his hands flailing weakly, then curling back into rigid fists.
He coughed again, but this time, something thick gurgled up his throat. His ribs shuddered violently, struggling against the pressure that built inside his chest. A dense, wet sound followed, echoing in the tight space around him as he rolled onto his side, his body convulsing with each sickening retch.
The first heave came out dry, his throat contracting, muscles spasming uncontrollably, but then it hit: a flood of warmth pushing up from the depths of his chest, choking him. His entire torso contracted, a brutal spasm that felt like his ribs would snap, his diaphragm forcing his lungs to squeeze out what lay inside. Blood surged from his mouth in a thick, metallic stream, splattering across the cold slab below him, staining the steel with dark red.
His body jerked violently again, his entire frame shaking as more blood followed, thicker, choking him in his throat. His chest seized, diaphragm convulsing uncontrollably as he tried to pull in air, but each breath hitched and gurgled, his lungs fighting against the flood of liquid.
His throat burned. Each cough tore at the raw tissue, flecks of blood hitting the floor with an ugly splat, his body sagging between spasms of convulsion. He hacked again, violently, the sound sharp, wet, primal. The blood tasted like copper and salt, thick and suffocating as it coated his lips and spilled over his chin.
His stomach churned, twisting tighter with each retch, his body contorting over itself, his back arched in unnatural angles as another wave of coughing wracked him. His hands, trembling and weak, reached blindly for something, anything, to hold onto, his fingers scraping against the cold metal slab, slipping through the pooling blood. His body convulsed again, bile mixing with the blood, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gulps between the violent fits of choking.
His head pounded, each pulse sending fresh shocks of pain lancing through his skull like a hammer smashing repeatedly against bone. His eyes were still shut tight, squeezing against the agony, but the darkness behind them flickered with sharp bursts of white as if his mind itself was short-circuiting. He tried to open them, but the pain only sharpened, forcing them closed again as another wave of convulsions shook his frame.
His diaphragm spasmed uncontrollably, wringing his lungs dry, forcing every last drop of blood from his mouth. It dribbled down his chin, splattering onto the slab below, as his body sagged against the cold surface. He rolled onto his back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, shallow breaths barely keeping pace with the panic swelling in his throat. His hands twitched, fingers curling in and out as his muscles seized.
The room around him remained cold and still, but the violent tremors of his body told him something darker, something primal had pulled him back. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth, warm and thick, as his body trembled, wracked by the aftershocks of the brutal upheaval.
He lay there, his breath shallow, trembling hands gripping the edge of the slab as the room around him began to spin. The cold gnawed at his bones, seeping deeper as his heart thudded weakly against his chest, the rhythm faltering like a broken machine struggling to keep pace. His body spasmed one last time, weak and pitiful, before falling still. The only sound in the room was Martin's body convulsing as he lay there, trembling in the cold, each breath still burning through his chest like fire. His heart, sluggish at first, now began to pick up speed, pounding against his ribs like a drum, fighting to pump life back into his limbs. The cold gnawed at his skin, bare, exposed, scarred, shivering uncontrollably as his muscles twitched under the strain. His lungs ached with every desperate breath, as if each inhale was a battle waged against the icy grip of death that had tried to claim him.
His hands, slick with his own blood, shakily gripped the edge of the cold slab beneath him. He could feel the rough texture of the metal pressing into his fingertips, his muscles barely responding, his body struggling to obey his will. With a weak, uneven motion, he began to slide, his bare skin peeling away from the cold steel, dragging himself off the slab.
The floor was even colder, and the moment his feet touched the slick surface, his legs gave out beneath him. His vision, still a blur of dark shapes and hazy outlines, spun wildly as he fell. The impact sent a jolt of pain shooting up his elbow as it caught his fall, the sharp edge of bone crashing against the hard floor.
Pain flashed, sharp and electric, exploding through his arm, but it was nothing compared to the overwhelming cold seeping into his bones. His body rolled helplessly in the pool of his own blood, slick and warm beneath him, as his muscles fought to coordinate. Each attempt to rise ended in his limbs trembling, slipping, failing him. His breath came in shallow gasps, the sound of it loud and harsh in his ears, as if he were breathing through shattered glass.
The room was dark, oppressively so. His eyes, still unable to focus, strained to make sense of the shadows swirling around him, but it was all a murky haze. The blackness seemed alive, swirling with vague, indiscernible shapes, and the darkness pressed in on him like a weight. He tried to blink the fog from his vision, but all he could see were shifting, menacing forms that bled together into a formless mass.
And the ringing, God, the ringing. It was relentless, a high-pitched whine that screamed inside his skull, drowning out everything else. It felt like a thousand voices, shrieking in unison, howling their rage into the depths of his mind. Each wave of it sent fresh tremors through his body, his hands pressing instinctively to his ears, trying to block out the sound, but there was no escaping it. The noise lived inside him, pulsating with every agonizing beat of his heart.
Martin's chest heaved as he sucked in another breath, his muscles convulsing again as he pressed his palms against the blood-slick floor, trying to steady himself. His balance wavered, his arms shook violently under the weight of his own body, and he slipped again, his side crashing into the ground, sending more pain rippling through his nerves.
He coughed, his chest tightening, the taste of iron still thick in his mouth as blood spattered from his lips. His bare skin slid across the cold floor as he twisted, contorting his body, forcing himself to roll over onto his stomach. His head pounded with each motion, the room spinning violently around him. Through the darkness, he could make out only the vaguest of shapes, the slab he had fallen from loomed like a giant shadow above him, solid and unmoving in the haze.
His hand reached up, trembling, clawing at the cold steel surface, seeking something to hold onto. His fingers slipped at first, smearing blood across the slab, but he forced them to grip tighter. With a grunt, he pulled, dragging his body upward, his legs twitching and spasming beneath him, barely able to support his weight.
His vision cleared just enough, a flicker of clarity cutting through the blur. The dark forms around him resolved slightly, taking on vague outlines of equipment and cabinets. The oppressive darkness receded, just barely, enough for him to make out the contours of the morgue around him, the faintest glimmers of light reflecting off metal surfaces.
The ringing in his ears dulled, just slightly, but it was still there, a constant, maddening drone in the background. His head swam, waves of nausea rolling through him, but he gritted his teeth, forcing his body to obey. His muscles tensed, every movement agonizing, every inch of progress a monumental effort.
He pulled harder, his back arching painfully, his body contorting as he tried to find leverage. His shoulder popped, a dull crack reverberating through his bones, but he ignored it. His bare feet scraped against the blood-slick floor as he pushed himself up, his body quaking, legs trembling like newborn limbs. His breath hitched, his ribs seizing in painful spasms, but he didn't stop.
Finally, he was upright, leaning heavily against the slab for support, his body shivering violently. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, each one like a knife cutting through his lungs, but he was standing, barely. His fingers dug into the edge of the slab, his knuckles white, the cold steel biting into his skin, grounding him as his mind struggled to catch up with his body.
Everything still hurt. Everything was still cold. But he was standing. And he was alive.
