The Mad King

Here

He can't see anything, the world appears entirely black similar to when you close your eyes. However this is different, his eyes are open. He knows they are but he opens and closes them a few times anyway just to check. His mind is... foggy, he can't think right, just can't... focus. He needs to focus. He needs to be able to think. He can't.

It's not just his mind that doesn't seem right, won't... act right. His body too is aching. Pain emanates from almost everywhere, but most strongly from his legs. He can't move them without causing even more pain, he tries to move them though, just to test it and he finds himself crying out.

At least he thinks it does. He doesn't hear it. He should be able to hear it, he should hear it. He can't hear, why can't he hear! He slaps his hand hard down on what must be his bed, he feels as his hand meets the fabric and the solid wood underneath. But it doesn't make a sound.

It doesn't make a sound.

He raises his hand again and then slaps the side of his chest, again no sound radiates from flesh hitting flesh, bone connecting with bone. The only proof he actually hit it is the tingling sensation and slight pain in both his hand and his side. It provides a small comfort that he can at least feel things, feel something besides the pain.

"Why... why can't I hear... why can't I see, mov- think correctly," if he says it out loud or just thinks it, it doesn't really matter.

" The demons that plagued my mind for years, they must have spread. But I was always a devout man, I prayed everyday so how did the demons get in, what did I do wrong..." He said this out loud, he knows this as he feels his mouth move, his teeth crash together and ricochet the impact to his gums. But it just serves to remind him how he can't hear anything... he should be able to hear. He should be able to hear.

No, no no no. Now it's his mind, the fog is rolling back in its numbing his remaining senses. Thinking hard. Focus!

So he does the only thing he can think of, he talks. He tries to tap his finger at the same time but it proves too difficult, so he just talks. He can't hear it, but it helps him to keep hold of his mind as he thinks of the words, it's almost as if he can hear them. He can feel his mouth too, moving to form unheard words, air on his lips as he breathes and his throat as it contracts to swallow the saliva that talking so much produces.

It's like he's floating through darkness and pain. No sights, no sound, fog and a pain in his legs so bad there is almost no feeling.

But the act of speaking provides an anchor, focus on the movement of the mouth. Focus on the air passing the lips. Focus on breathing, focus on swallowing, focus focus focus!

His sentences are becoming increasingly nonsensical. More random words, the first words that enter his head, than the long, eloquent, thought out sentences he used to use. A desperate fight to survival, an unwinnable battle against his own fractured mind. He knows he can't win, that he'll lose himself once more, but he still forces out the words. It'd be easier to give up, to allow the fog to take over and to be scattered around his mind. But to stop fighting, to forget his name, his family, to forget himself.

"Would I still be me?"

I'm here. I'm here and I'm not going without a fight. I'm here.

He doesn't know how long he speaks for, or how long it takes until his throat starts to feel dry. But then he feels a hand in his and a light squeeze, which he joyfully returns.

He doesn't know who's hand it is; his wife, one of his sons or daughters, a guard or even a servant. He just grips that hand tight, a grip that says "I'm here". Then the answering squeeze "I'm here too, you are not alone".

With a smile forming on his face and a strengthened will, he continues to speak.

And although he can't hear them, whispers travel around the castle saying "The Mad King's at it again."