Discoveries | TMR | Three

5:4

As Daniel stirs awake, beads of sweat have accumulated to the point of drenching his entire head. His scalp is so moist that it looks as though he's just stepped out of the shower. The release of salty water from every pore on his body is so extreme that his cushion and sheet feel like they have just been soiled.

With a jolt, he propels his sweat-soaked body into an upright position, his left hand gripping the edge of the bed while his right clutches the damp fabric of his t-shirt. He gasps sharply, a breath so sudden it momentarily constricts his throat, followed by a wave of dry heaves that sends his chest into a fit of spasms.

Adrenaline courses through him, a remnant of a nightmare that has already slipped from his memory. His eyes are bleary, and he feels hyper-alert, his heart racing in his chest with such ferocity that he fears it might burst through his skin. It beats like a washing machine at the end of its cycle, or a jackhammer pounding against concrete. He can feel the rhythm in his throat, perfectly synchronized with the drumming of his brain against his skull.

What had he been dreaming about?

He can't recall. The fragments of the nightmare are elusive, but he knows he felt utterly drained. The only vivid memory is of his fists clenched tightly around an old wooden bat, the wood splintering under his grip, sharp shards digging into his palms. His chest constricted from inhaling toxic fumes that filled the air - sand, ash, gunpowder.

Blood.

Oh fuck, he can remember the blood.

It invaded all of his senses simultaneously. The scent of copper hit him like a slap, forcing its way into his nostrils. The metallic taste coated his tongue, sliding over his teeth and flowing down his throat with each gulp of thin saliva. He watched as it oozed from the wounds of the injured, heard the squelching sound as heavy boots splashed into puddles on the sand, and felt the sharp sting of bullets as they tore through flesh or grazed skin. It wrapped around the end of his weapon, trickling down and mingling with his fingers.

He could see it beginning to fester on the bodies of the fallen.

The Right Arm. He was lost in a dream of the battle in the Scorch. He envisioned Brenda and Travis being taken, while he stood helplessly on the sidelines, watching as chaos erupted around him. Always the sniper, never the fighter; he was stationed on that sand dune, concealed behind a small stone wall, unleashing a storm of bullets upon every Wicked guard in the camp.

Daniel slaps his cheeks and shakes his head vigorously, but these gestures do little to erase the haunting memory from his thoughts. He glances through the slightly open door leading to his balcony, where the moonlight spills through the glass, illuminating the fluttering curtains in the midnight breeze. He wonders what time it is, but the clock in his room doesn't work, so he tossed it in the bin beneath his desk when he moved in here three days prior. Instead, he can hear the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway outside his room.

He shifts on the bed and rises, tossing aside the thin quilt that clings to his sweat-soaked skin. Groggily, he rubs his eyes as he stands up. The coolness of the floor feels refreshing against his feet. His sheets had felt like they were glued together with perspiration, and now he leans against the wall, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down to his ankle and slide beneath the arch of his foot.

How he longs for a refreshing cold shower at this moment.

It's revolting.

The echoes of his nightmare linger stubbornly in his mind, the terror of that night still clouding his thoughts. He exhales deeply, muttering a quiet, "fucking hell" to himself.

Those external curses becoming magnified in his

His own curses amplify in his head for a brief moment, and he berates himself for getting so worked up over the nightmares that have plagued him since the day he and Adeline first woke up in the Scorch. Yet, he realizes there's little he can do about his body's instinctive response to those wretched memories. With another heavy sigh, he considers leaving the room entirely, hoping to find some solace elsewhere.