Retrocognition

26 | déjà vu

When I open my eyes, I immediately know something is wrong.

For a moment, I can't put my finger on what exactly is different from the previous scenario I recall. My surroundings are familiar, matching the scene I had closed my eyes to. The moon is full as it beams down on me, the sky littered with stars that are half-hidden by fog. However, focusing my attention on my whereabouts gives away distinct differences between the scene at hand and the previous setting. I am no longer standing in the heart of campus, comforted by streetlights and close buildings. Instead, I am surrounded by trees that only seem to further block the light of the moon from my sight.

My head feels fuzzy as I try and fail to move my limbs. My vision blurs for a moment, causing everything around me to turn into undecipherable objects. I wince as pain flares through my mind, going to clutch my head only to find that I can't move my arms. Panic rises in my chest that I seem to be incapable of calming. I am a stranger in my own body, no longer the host in control.

Move, a voice whispers in my mind, though it is not my own. Get up. Get help. Move.

I struggle, trying my best to obey the commands the voice in my head is demanding. Sheer fear courses through my veins, spiking my heart rate. I have no idea what it is I'm afraid of, but this terror is what keeps me semi-conscious. Purpose keeps my foggy head clear, as well as the voice in my head that continues to scream for me to move.

Suddenly, my body takes action of its own accord. I feel myself begin to crawl, yet I haven't moved a muscle. My hand reaches out beyond my control, and that is when I feel the grass beneath me. I grip onto a handful of wet leaves, the rustling noise the foliage makes beneath my grasp creates an echoing sound that runs through my groggy mind like an unstoppable vibration. It takes all of the focus I can muster to be able to concentrate on my hand's movement, and I want to scream when I realize that it is not my hand at all. I stare down at the tan skin that definitely does not belong to me, studying a silver charm bracelet I have never before seen, along with a set of black-painted acrylic nails and lithe fingers decorated with delicate silver rings. 

In the back of my head, it registers in my memory that this scenario feels somewhat familiar. However, my brain is too hazy to be able to figure out why this scene brings on déjà vu. I don't have time to focus on what is going on or what I may or may not remember—all I can concentrate on is moving and getting far away from wherever I am.

My limbs move of their own accord once again. This time it is my right leg, my knee touching the rough ground beneath me as I try to lift myself to a standing position. I'm halfway on my feet before I know it, shaking as I rise from the grass. A wave of nausea rolls through my body out of nowhere, instantly becoming too much to bear. I fall back to the ground, hardly able to extend my hands—or not my hands, as they don't belong to me—to help catch myself and break the fall. Pain shoots through my wrists as they hit the ground, causing wet dirt to coat my palms. The tumble results in my hands slipping against the leaves covering the scattered grass as I lose my balance.

I don't dare give up on trying to flee. I push through the dizziness obscuring my thoughts, forcing my limbs to move once more. Again, I realize that my body is moving out of my control. The voice screaming in my head is not mine. And yet somehow I am here, living out this terrifying delusion.

I have just started to crawl once again when I am forcefully yanked backwards. I feel a rough grip tighten on my ankle, then I am assaulted with a sharp pull that makes my strength give way. A shrill cry leaves my lips—though the voice that leaves my lips is not mine—as my body is dragged through the dirt. I try to helplessly claw at the grass in an attempt to halt my assailant to no avail.

"You're not going anywhere." I vaguely recognize the voice of my attacker, though my mind is too dazed to place the voice's identity in my memory. "You can't get away from me."

"That won't stop me from trying." It is the first time I have clearly spoken, and once again I feel like screaming. Though I feel my lips moving to form the words, it is not me saying them. The voice is foreign to me, much too deep and scratchy to be my own. I do not possess the conviction the words are said with.

Roughly, my body is flipped over as I am forced onto my back. My head hits the ground so hard my skull vibrates, the pain only adding to the awful dizziness I am feeling. Though my assailant is above me, I can't make out any of their features due to the way my vision spins. Rough and calloused hands grip my forearms, shaking my body as another wave of nausea rolls through my chest as my stomach churns, only further impairing my vision.

"Stay still," the voice demands, hissing out a sharp whisper.

I manage to do the opposite. I shriek as I claw my nails into whatever I can touch, finding it hard to move due to the way my head pounds. I am not in control as my arms lash out, making contact with the person holding me captive. I hear a grunt, then my hands are shoved to the ground with force.

"I told you to stay fucking still!"

"Get off of me!" the voice that is not mine yet leaves my lips cries, sounding frightened and desperate and broken all at once.

A hand covers my mouth, smothering my lips and nose at once, robbing me of air. I writhe as I try to break free from the tight grip blocking my airways, my vision blurring in and out constantly. My lungs soon begin to ache, causing my temples to throb as my body begs for oxygen.

"Be quiet," the masculine voice sneers with no remorse for his actions whatsoever. "Bitch."

I bite down hard on the palm smothering me. I taste the metallic flavor of blood as my teeth break the skin of my assailant's hand. He grunts in pain, cursing harshly under his breath.

"You're gonna fucking regret that," he threatens out of rage. A strong hand reaches out and grasps my hair as I struggle to crawl away from the horrid situation I've been put in, roughly pulling me backwards.

"Please." I am begging now, even though I am still unable to control my tongue. The voice that I don't recognize, though is somehow coming from my lips, breaks sounding utterly hopeless.

Hands wrap around my throat, shaking as they make contact with my flesh. "Keep begging me, slut. See where that gets you."

Tears stream down my cheeks. I'm unaware as to when exactly I started crying, yet I can taste the salty drops of tears as they roll down my face, trekking down my cheeks as they travel down to my neck.

"Please," the foreign voice coming from my lips tries once more. "Please, please, please."

The words become harder to get out as the grip around my throat tightens. Eventually, the word turns into a gasp as my lungs beg for air, my mind becoming more foggy due to lack of oxygen. My temples and limbs throb rhythmically, matching the pace of my slowing heart rate. The pain is unbearable, yet my struggle is no good. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I squirm or kick. He is too strong.

"Please . . ."

It is the last word I hear before the world fades to black.