Absent

Chapter 2

It had been forever since he had felt the senses he did. A new emotion had been provoked, one of which he could not pinpoint. His fingers grazed the dirt, of which's dull clay color he could barely make out. He laid on his stomach, face down to the earth. A crimson dotted his fingertips, as well as the gravel below them. Crimson. He jerked his head involuntary, his neck feeling like a bike that had been left in the rain. A creak resonated within his head, and he looked up. It was then he realized that his sight had begun to return.

Lush red trees swayed in the distance, their long leaves of which he could barely make out dancing, welcoming his vision back, flaunting it's brilliant color as if representing the whole spectrum in itself.

Around him, it was dark, shady. He looked up. The sky was a dull gray, clouds covering it's vibrance. On the ground, he saw brown-red dirt, like a clay. He tightened his fingers, digging into the soft, yet thick mush. It was cold. He was cold. His body began to wake up. He looked down at his arms. They were dark, bruised; obviously damaged. Small drops of mist clung upon the light hairs of his arms. On his palm, a long cut sunk into his hand. It looked partially healed. How long was he out? He looked at his other. A few scrapes.

As his consciousness began to return to him, he realized the position he was in. He slowly began to prop himself up on his elbows, bringing himself to an upright position. It was then he saw his legs. Remnants of navy blue bottoms clung to his legs. They seemed odd; they were puffy, like they were meant to insulate him. What good that did; he was freezing. Tight, worn black rubber boots were on his feet, surprisingly clean. On his chest, he wore a bloodstained white top. Although, the blood was more brown than red at that point. He was a mess. He sighed, and looked up with heavy eyes. That's when he saw it.
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A large metallic ship stood planted in the ground, so eerily being there, as if it had been waiting for him to wake up, watching him. The man sunk his palm firmly into the cold ground, and managed to get himself upright. His feet were numb. He shook the dirt off his hand, revealing a damp, blistered palm. The fingers seemed bony and fragile. He begun to walk toward the ship.

He walked with a limp on his right leg, his body rigid and delicate. He looked around as he waddled to his destination. He wasn't sure of where he was. It didn't look familiar at all; but, nothing looked very familiar to him. It was dark, yet vivid; depressingly whimsical. It seemed like something of a dream.

The wind blew softly, subtle whistles gracing his ears every few moments. The leaves of the trees shuffled softly. His staggered breathing and steps in the mud were like a symbals clashing violently during a smooth jazz performance. He felt so out of place, so alien. He felt so alone.

Alone.

Wait, is anybody here?

He muttered these words to himself groggily, his tongue like sandpaper against a dry wall. He had forgotten that he could speak. The words resonated within his head; a step closer to reclaiming his humanity. The damp, cold air still brushed against his skin as he stood idly. Everything paused. He had arrived at the face of the ship.