Again and again
…his eyes.
The man awoke in a room. A mattress was firm against his back, and the pillow that lay beneath his head had a certain soft-tough texture, which promised a nice, albeit somewhat uncomfortable, night's rest. He did not jolt awake, rather his eyes pitter-pattered between open ,close ,open ,close ,open ,close, until they finally had the strength to remain open. He had no headache, no worrying pains apart from that of his neck (soft-tough) , but nothing to indicate any sort of wrongness about the situation. From what he could see, still gazing at the ceiling, it was white, no, cream, due to the slight yellowed discoloration of the paint. His eyes followed the swished lines of the brush (the paint had clearly dried incorrectly) as they drew horizontally towards the walls, and down down towards the same yellowish-white-cream colour of the skirting boards.
The first thought that arrived of course, was a worrying one, he had no idea where he was. The room held no recollection in his mind, and even if it did, the contents, the decoration of uneven white brushstrokes held no such amount of beauty or comfort, that it would have remained hidden, tucked away in…in the…Memory. There was none. Nothing. Now the man sat upright, a sudden shock straightening his spine. There was nothing. Nothing! He knew the words of what should be there. Mother. Father. Siblings. He knew things still of course. Capitals of countries, buildings of education, ideas on political spectrums and philosophical ideals. He could remember more of the teachings of Aristotle, as well knowing Aristotle’s name, than even a single feature of anyone significant to him, if he even had anyone significant to think of. But there was a hole, a hole in his head, where the dirt had been excavated, and a pit left, some sort of metaphysical divot. He didn’t even know his own name. Ripped away. He was nameless. Unfamiliar. In a room which somehow matched his psyche, like some painting you find and have an inexplicable, deep connection with. This was not his room, and yet somehow, it was. No. No, he wouldn’t have this. This made no sense! A dream perhaps? Surely so! He began to pinch his skin, soft at first, then hard, nails digging in drawing blood. He winced through his teeth, and yet found no end to his confusion, only a dull ache to accompany it. Lucidity then? A dream which he himself is the master of? He thought this would come with an overwhelming realisation. Like when one flies through the air in their dreams, only to realise they are doing so, and come crashing to the ground, jolting awake. But he felt the same. No shot of adrenaline. No closing in floor. Just his racing mind, an aching neck and arm, and the feeling of blood slowly running down the back of his arm. He felt he would go mad. The sudden influx of thought, of questioning, of the who what where when why how! It was enough to cause an aneurysm. He clasped his hands around his head, grabbing, tugging on his hair in complete desperation. Something. Anything!
Nothing.
He sat there for a while. The bleeding ceased. His panic became calm. Calm became numbness. As if his nerves had simply been switched off, refusing to be a part of this nonsense. Minutes passed, an hour maybe (there was no clock, and the man had given up counting the seconds mentally). Then, a splash. A wave. The sudden urge to get up, to do something, anything. It was overwhelming, threatening to drown the man if he did not get up, get up and find something. He rose to his feet. He shook terribly, adrenaline and, yes, fear. The urge to move and the fear of it all started a battle within him. Each step forward, and each hesitation, was a man lost to the emotional rivalry. It was a sudden moment that the man found himself by the door to the room, his hand grasped around the handle. Firm. His skin went white from the pressure of the hold. With one, deep breath, he twisted the handle and flung the door open, and opened…
