CELL

/ TWO /

Our senses tell us where we are but, when they are removed, does it even matter?

Whether you're in a sun kissed clearing in the heart of an ancient forest, with deer and other wildlife watching on from the camouflage of the surrounding flora, or walking along a council estate street in the part of town where people don't walk after nightfall and try not to during the day, the ability to see makes , doesn't it? If you are unable to experience the world around you, does it even exist? Is it simply a tree falling in a forest with no one to hear?

If you can't hear or taste or feel, are you real, or merely a consciousness floating in a sea of nothing? Does thought give substance, or only the desire for it?

The key in the lock to his cage was turned quietly and smoothly. The hinge to the door did not complain with a rusted screech as he thought it might. Cage doors were meant to creak, weren't they? It was part of their charm. Rather, it sighed with the pleasure of being utilised. He moved away from the sound, which was followed by almost silent indications of movement. A slight rustle of clothes. Measured breathing. Humming?

There was an abrupt flash of contained lightning, painfully piercing the darkness. It lunged at him, giving him no chance to avoid its touch. He felt the electrical charge surge through his body, causing him to shudder uncontrollably. The darkness once again, and thankfully, overtook him.

Again, he felt as if he could be floating. Unlike the sensations before, when he'd woken in the cage, he could feel a different surface beneath him. It was still firm, but seemed to be cushioned. Yet he was sure he was floating. It was like the moment where, on a rollercoaster, you fly over the apex of an upward slope and go careening down the other side. Your insides lift away from the shackles of muscles and veins to become weightless for a few seconds. They're then yanked back into their original places in preparation for the next loop-de-loop. Except, this time, they didn't return. They remained separate, not quite knowing which way was up. Even the knowledge there was something beneath him failed to aid them.

Eyes. Open your eyes, he told himself.

He tried to, but something was making him resist. Not patches or tape, as he could feel nothing on his eyes to prevent him from seeing around himself, but he was unable to make his lids separate and let the light in. If there was light to be let in.

Hand. Lift your hand to touch your face, he told himself. Prise your eyes apart.

He tried to, but his arms wouldn't move. Nothing held him down that he could feel, like restraints, but his arms disobeyed his instructions. He visualised each part of his body externally, to see if any of it would oblige. Fingertips. Nose. Mouth. Toes. They had all forgotten they were attached to him and were meant to follow his instructions. He was in charge of his body, not the other way around. It was meant to work for him.

Work.

Was his body damaged? Was that why he couldn't move? Had he been in an accident and was now a crumpled mess of splintered bone badly wrapped in torn flesh? That would explain his vanished memory. He'd suffered a head trauma and his memories had fled until his brain was sufficiently healed for them to return. The electrical impulses from the same brain couldn't leap across the shredded gaps in ravaged nerves to twitch that finger or blink that eye.

He felt better. He was in a state of distinct disrepair, but it was an explanation. Not the best, but his reason would accept a reason where it could. The mounting panic he'd tried to ignore subsided. For the moment, he was alive and he couldn't feel anything, in particular the immense pain from whatever injuries he'd sustained. The doctors who were looking after him had done that much and, he was sure, were working hard to bring him back. To mend his broken pieces.