Ghost

The Night is an Ocean - Winter Aid

He stood on the cold tile, feeling little better than a broken teacup. the echoes of her presence were still wrapped around him and he was staring at the shower, unsure of what to do with it. He felt strange like he knew the idea of a word but not the word itself. He couldn't remember anything. Why couldn't he remember? It was frustrating, searching through the drawers of his mind in a frenzy and realizing he couldn't see anything. Parents? He'd had those, right? Who were they? How old was he? What was this skin being shaken off his bones feeling? furthermore, why had his mouth begun to water at the sight of her? he felt this aching thirst, a hunger or craving maybe that had never been satiated.

The questions began to stack on top of one another into a building, and he pressed a palm to his chest as his heart began to pound. Then, sucking in a breath, he sighed, setting the bathing things on the sink counter. There was nothing he could do but hope Roe had some answers. Moray looked at himself in the mirror, the reflection much clearer than any pool of water they had at the caves. Once the thought of water and caves crossed his mind, he catapulted himself down the trail. Caves? What caves? He remembered a salty taste in his mouth, the feeling of cold wet stone beneath his palms and knees. But why? Shying away from the panic that fought to brim, he swallowed and made eye contact with himself. 

His long shaggy hair was caked in sand, spilling over his shoulders down his back and with each movement the sand mask cracked and fell away from the stiff strands. His thick eyebrows stood out on his forehead, sand laid thick, and there were white bristles along his jaw and lips. He opened his mouth, staring at his teeth, all of which were sharp and pointed. there was something uncanny about them, something he didn't understand. He stuck out his tongue, pink and weird like the muscle from an oyster. Moray splayed his fingers and stared at the fingernails, more claw-like than could be considered normal, then flexed his arms, turning them this way and that, looking with curiosity at the wrappings covering odd places of his body. He wiggled his toes, and stretched out his legs, marveling at the muscle that rolled beneath his skin. He paid closer attention to the fuzzy halo of sand that lay over his legs and arms. He was continuing his inspection when he smelled something, something pleasant and gentle. sudden knocking came at the door, and he opened his mouth trying to speak as he scrambled for the knob. 

Nothing came out but a brainless hissing of air as his mouth and tongue flapped about like a fish dumped on a boat. The knocking came again and he managed out a grunt that flittered and then fell to the floor in a heap. 

"I'm sorry, I forgot about your voice." Roe said through the door and he felt his face crease as he heard her. He grimaced.

"I brought you some clothes, they're not much but they'll do the trick. If they dinnae fit you we can get others. I'll put them on your bed after I change the sheets, so." She talked in a manner that seemed well practiced.

"Granda got McCawley, (that's his adopted son,)" She added for his benefit "to drive down to the store and pick you up some toiletries and erm, underwear, like." he wondered what on earth those were.

"He should be back soon! I'm going to change the sheets now, knock if you need something, so."  He heard her exit the room and realized she had called the bed his bed and felt a rush of some weird unidentifiable feeling. He began peeling off the wrappings. Steam was floating out of the shower and had begun fogging up the windows and mirror. Under the wrappings, an herbal substance was plastered to his body. Moray stared at it, wondering what it was there for. He stepped into the shower and felt the broiling water burn against his skin. 

He scrambled out onto the tile again and frantically grappled with the knobs, turning the cold water on. Once it became warm he stepped back in and watched the paste and sand dissolve into a green tint as it rolled off. Hiding beneath the herbs were knife wounds, which stung slightly. He stared, trying to remember how he had gotten them. A sudden wave of nausea coated his insides and the panic rushed over the edge of his suppression like a waterfall. Something was violently, horribly wrong. He was missing something, but he couldn't tell what it was. He had lost it, something precious, sacred. It wasn't just missing from him, it had been stolen, taken away. He needed it like he needed oxygen. But what was it?