Forgotten

Forgotten

 

 

            The first thing he saw was the guitar case.

            From the slanted angle of his head as it was propped up by a sleep-fuzzed hand, all he could see was the chocolate gleam of the guitar's body beneath the tauntingly agape zipper, the teasing glint of a string, the mere hint of a hole in the form of a circular clot of black. He tipped his head downwards, trying to get a better view of this strange, fantastic contraption. What could it possibly be used for? He had not even the slightest clue. It was, however, fascinating.

            He rolled onto his back and studied the ceiling, mind thick with wonder. Part of him wished feverishly to rise, cross the splotchy carpet, and open the case. The other part of him was frightened. What if it was a weapon? He didn't know. He knew nothing.

            He literally knew nothing.

            Nothing at all about anything.

            The tenacious shreds of sleep that stuck his eyelids to his skin, glued his limbs to the soft comfort of the bed, kept his torso in the dark heat of the covers - dissipated with fierce suddenness. The realisation that he knew absolutely nothing about anything was a colossal one and any trivial thoughts of comfort or drowsiness ceased to exist.

            "What the hell?"

          He sat bolt upright. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and oh who on earth was that? Was that him? That sallow, pale-faced man with the spill of ebony hair, skin splotchy and sickly, eyes rimmed with red and part-closed but the colour of a rowdy, stormy sky? It couldn't possibly be! For some reason, he knew that what he was seeing was wrong because he didn't look like that. Uselessly, he groped for an image of what he was sure he did look like. Nothing arose. He cursed with vocabulary he didn't even know he possessed.

            He swung his head, eyes travelling around the room, trying to soak in the information as quickly as possible. Shelves, laden with books. Canvas paintings, dangling, depicting: tumultuous seas with harsh brush strokes; warm dream skies full of clouds; a light-house, shafts of gold streaming from the tip. Only he didn't know it was a light house because he didn't know anything.

            He stumbled to the door and pushed himself free into a corridor, wildly looking around, panic making his breath come harsh and ragged. Wallpaper stuck in jagged strips to the white-washed walls - there the drooping fan of a leaf, there the bloody bloom of a rose , there the cruel barbs jutting from a snaking stem. Lights guttered sullenly on as he emerged. A quick look down at his body told him that he was semi-naked - and he knew enough to know that was going to get him nowhere.

            He breathed in.

            He breathed out.

            He returned to his memory-less prison.

 

***

 

            The clothes were deliciously cool as they touched his skin - which, he discovered, was scorching hot. After the initial drowsiness and following panic had finally receded into something at least a little manageable, he found he did not feel well at all. When he closed his eyes, tortured shapes twisted and writhed in bizarre colours, like dreams waiting to claim him.

            As well as that, a lingering bleariness cloaked him - dulling his senses into a strange half-awake sensation. And there was the fact that his vision seemed to spontaneously begin to wobble, juddering jarringly from side to side, side to side, before eventually settling.

            Amnesia.

            The word felt right somehow - but was that the cause of the faintness he felt, the airiness of his head? Probably not. But it was the cause of the big load of nothing in his brain.

            He glanced at the strange silver box lurking by his bedside. Lurid numbers proclaimed it 6:30am. He glanced out of the window. Blushing clouds and purple-turning-white-turning-blue sky swept in a panorama and proclaimed it morning. He swept a hand through his oily black hair and groaned, leaning backwards onto the soft stomach of his bed.

            What had happened?

            He had no idea.

            He fell asleep.

 

***

 

            When he next awoke, it wasn't due to the guitar that he had now forgotten even existed (other problems, it seemed, had squished it down the 'importance' scale) it was due to the frenzied knocking, fist slamming succinctly against the door. The numbers said 10:30. A friendly voice seeped through the meagre barrier of wood protecting him from the outside world that he knew a staggering nothing about.

            "Ben? Be-en? Are you ever getting up?"

            Exasperation lay beneath the skin of the words, colouring the humour strangely. He sat up, groggy but alert.

            "Um..." he said in a voice that shot up and down strangely. At least he had a vague idea of his age, then. "Yes! Coming!"

            "You better. Your father has made breakfast."

            "Right. Okay."

            Footsteps slowly faded back into a cocoon of silence. He sat there for a moment, dwelling a lot, panicking a little. He had to get out of here. He looked once again at the window and the daytime world - silver machines sweeping along black roads, glittering maniacally. Vast containers of people droned endlessly by. Birds screamed and squawked a belated morning chorus.

            Something clicked.

            Escape.

            He rose from the tangled covers (which he didn't notice were soaked in salty sweat) and stepped over the guitar case to the window. He peered through it, apprehensive. What sprawled out below the walls of his prison was unfamiliar, unknown, unrecognisable, incomprehensible. He knew nothing about it. As was becoming a running theme.

            The sickness which had appeared to have been ailing him had vanished. He didn't know what it had been - but with the number of things which were currently wrong with him, it didn't matter all that much. He felt like he should have memories here. He felt like the walls keeping him hostage should be simply drenched in fond remembrances - of dogs, of siblings, of play-fights and arguments and homework. Because this room was his. He knew it.

            But he couldn't stay here. He knew that too.

           He experimentally leant upon the handle that jutted from the bottom end of the glass. It creaked downwards, and he almost fell through the window as it sunk backwards - loosing a spray of cold air that streamed through the gap. He shivered. He looked around the room once more, hunting for something that he knew he needed....

            "Coat." he said aloud. "Shoes."

            Sure enough, dangling by a ridged bone-pale device that was hot to the touch - a thick woollen coat, boots that brought to mind a hot drink and snow. He slipped both on and once again crossed to the window.

            He pushed it further. The noise as well as the cold was pervasive - eagerly flooding into the room and permeating it like a nocuous gas, draining the heat and silence with hungry fingers. Screaming sirens. Buzzing blares. Frantic footsteps. A rage of disturbing sounds that surged and roared and soughed. Any shreds of green that were scattered around the cityscape were feeble and weak. Trees, twisting from the ruined soil with grim roots and leafless branches. Grass, frost-encrusted, cold.

            He swallowed and vaulted out and over.

            And was, in turn, swallowed by the sound.

  

 

 

            

Author's Note

Once again, largely unedited haha. Hope you enjoy it if you read :)