One

ONE. More than one beginning …

My Eyes Opened.

I was held surrounded in the deep blue velvet of night.  Cold.  Welcoming.  I could slip easily again into dreamless sleep, for the chill of breeze against skin that caused the small hairs to rise.  The Cold Velvet rolled over my skin and into my mouth. 

I tasted night.  Crisp and wet.

The sky was dark as the depth of the ocean.  I looked into the sky and the ocean looked back.

Inviting to sleep, and not hinting of any danger.

          The tall grass was brown, with signs of having been recently green.  It swayed from the same breeze that poured over my skin.  Small pebbles pressed from the ground through the layer beneath me into the small of my back. 

          Drifting. 

          My Eyes opened without identifying change. 

          I remained wrapped in a blanket of night and dream; unable to give in to sleep or be fully awake.   There was a place, a where, I felt I was supposed to be.  This place of cold velvet and swaying grass was not that place.  Focus on the place.  But I could not … things in my mind that should have been thoughts were gray clouds of unknown. 

          There was another form near me.  It was neither part of the night nor part of the ground, or the swaying grass.  It was dark and solid and unitary.  The form moved with a slight undulating movement, whilst prostrate, probably breathing. 

          I stared.  The Fog was strong.  What could this form be?  I wanted to investigate, but was overcome with un-certainty. 

          There is the sound of slight breathing barely heard over the movement of the grass and the whisper of night.  I stare.  Intently.  No greater understanding comes.  I think that perhaps I should see what lies in the distance.  It could be a stalking beast or shadows cast from many things inanimate. 

          I still feel the pebbles’ forms in my back as I move from laying to crouching.  I feel a bulk at my side. There is a gun at my hip.  My hands have found the weapon. It feels familiar and comfortable in my hands.  I am certain the gun was supposed to be there at my side.  I stare at the gun in my hands, and consider it, as a thing of itself.  What is a gun?  What makes a gun kill, and why was it here in my hand.  Despite it’s familiarity, I did not think to get the gun.  The gun did not exist, and then it was in my hand.

          The form, in the distance, breathed.  It did not move toward a cardinal direction.  It did not stir.  Whatever it was, it was content in what it was doing?

          Why do I have a gun? What is this place? Why am I here? There were no answers, and I realize, I do not know my own name. 

          I move away from the dark form beyond the edge of my vision.  The gun is set to be very unsafe.  I had not switched it from safe.  … I did not believe I had.  There were other forms coming to be known.  Dark shapes at the edge of the dome of my perception. 

Breathing. 

Baying. 

Horses.

I do not know my name. 

I count four horses.

I hear heavy breathing, it is my own.  The heaviness of it makes the horses nervous.  Their movement increases.  I do not know where I am or how I got here.  Steady yourself and think.  But no clarity comes, only confusion. Confusion is never in the accompaniment of clarity. 

          Four horses.  Tied but saddled.  Two with saddles for riding.  Two with packs.  Dust settles about everything.  They were ridden recently.  Two men.  The other and the self. 

          The other moves from black shape prone to black shape erect.  It approaches, slowly.  My heart races; yet I do not draw my weapon.

          Through transition of blacks and grays the form becomes a lone humanoid male in front of me.  He is sleepily clothed in rumpled trail gear.  Hard-worn trousers; ill-fitted.  A dark flannel shirt lies over a long-sleeved cotton garment.  His clothes are similar to mine-own.  He remarks about it being a cold night and stumbles to take a piss.  He finishes and stokes a pit of old charcoal until sparks leap into the sky and float without a care on the breeze.  A log is thrown into the cauldron and new tongues of flame lick at the bark.  He goes back to the darkness, made not-so-dark by the flames, and resumes his place on the ground.

          Soon the man is snoring.  My heart still races. Thoughts twist into a storm of unknowing; I am lost, but it is a new lost.  The place is not so much unfamiliar as I am unfamiliar.  I have a sense of self and of being, but there is now knowledge of past, present, or possible future.  I am a book of pages erased.  The feeling is overwhelming. I become sick.  My skin clammy, I cannot hold whatever had been in my stomach. 

          The breeze kicks up, and energizes the sweat on my arms. I become more settled and take inventory. 

          What do I know?  What is there to inventory?

          I am with someone else.  He does not seem a threat.  Does that mean he knows those things that I no longer hold?  Does he know of my absence of memory?  Is his loss, same?  Is he using me?  Can he be trusted?  Can anyone be trusted?  Is there anyone else … or is all that is, what is before me in this dark Tartarus?  He could tell me he is my best friend or my worst enemy and I would have no way of knowing truth from ill-will or intent. Can I be trusted; or even my senses?

          I close my eyes.

          I try to lose my consciousness and give self over to the cool velvet of night as it wraps around me.  The gun seems a potential answer.  But what are the questions it solves?  Would it solve things that needed not attention and leave so much more left unanswered …

          But it is definitive.

          I walk for a time.  Trying to push my mind through the fog that is my consciousness.  I try to think, but there is little to think upon.  My entire life is the last 30 minutes.  There simply is nothing more. 

          Despair. It overwhelms me. 

I collapse.

Sleep comes, itself an answer for now.  I shake in my sleep and find no rest.

Reviews

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

You have a talent for description. You are very good at appealing to every sense a reader possesses, making them feel as though they are right there in the story. You also employ clever metaphors

Suggestion for improvement? Proofreading. If grammar is not your forte, get someone else to do it for you.