OUTLANDISH

0.1

CHAPTER 0.1 - Mist in your Mind

THE air that rushes to your lungs is but a pool of acid, awakening you with a frantic gasp and spluttered coughs as it burns the entirety of your insides, seeping through your chest and spreading down your body. Your vision is blurry, eyes filled with salt water that stings when you blink and peer at what's in front of you— your hands, all shaky and wrinkled. You must've been in the water for hours, haven't you? Your limbs ache and you feel tired, dragging your body to the shore, the coarse sand beneath your shuddering knees.

"Where— where am I?" Your voice did not sound yours, too raspy and weak, but you know it is because your throat seizes into another fit of coughs that have you curling up into yourself. It's cold, yet everything is burning. You roll onto your back, breathing heavily and erratically, your lungs eager to fill with oxygen again. Only then do you see the sky through your fogged vision— the clouds are gray, carrying a burden you can't describe, as though about to pour it all onto the earth. You get only a glimpse of the sun behind them, and your heart swims in melancholy.

"Why am I here..?" You question nobody in particular, blinking to see more, eyes now peeled and dry from the saltiness of the waters, and the chill of the wind. It slaps against your skin, sending a rush down your spine, howling into your ears in time with the hum of the ocean waves. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to recall past the muddled thoughts and images in your mind. Where are you? 

Before you lie a vast ocean, foggy near the horizon that you can no longer see past, the sand on the shore pristine yet so dull, lacking life. There are no birds in the sky, or in the trees that rustle with every passing of the breeze; everything is so numb. How are you here? Why are you here? Weren't you just in—

Ah.

Where were you again? Your eyes flutter open, and now there is minimal blur in your sight, allowing you to take in more of the ocean and the shore. There is nobody around, no one to ask of your whereabouts— though you suppose that would sound a little off. Where were you before you ended up here? Your head thrums and pain seeps in as you paint yourself a map, trying to coax the memories, yet there are none. You sit up then, frowning in concern. 

Why can't you remember where you were? Your mind is blank, a void of nothing— what were you doing before you fell unconscious? Strolling on the beach— perhaps riding a ship? Swimming? No, no, no. Panic surges in you, forming a lump in your throat.

"What.. what's going on..?" Your voice is better now, though still quiet, kissing the cold air. A few moments of silence pass, the wind and ocean and trees all but white noise as you get lost in your thoughts. You're trying to remember it, them, everything, anything— your family, friends, occupation— your home. But there is none. 

Tears prickle your eyes and it stings again, so you sniffle in silence, the air suddenly hard to breathe now, and not simply because you were drowning moments ago. There is nothing to remember, nobody, nowhere, none. You feel empty, like a void. There is nothing, except—

"[Name]," you whimper to yourself, gathering what strength you have in you to slowly stand, weak knees buckling under your weight. You take a step, then another, water dripping from your body, sand clinging to your skin in a way that should make you feel icky, but you are far too muddled to care. Your mind is screaming it, repeating it like a broken record, the characters etched into the forefront of your brain. You can see it, hear it, taste it as it settles on your tongue— [Name], your name; the only identity you have now.