Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 5 // The Memories (C.STRAY)

THE TRUTH COMES SECOND - 5

One never really bothers fearing the loss of everything until everything is gone. It was the past that people feared more than anything, for it loomed, but when the presence leaves, the option to be afraid enters.

The crush of Carrick's choice was immediate, like the flutter of tired eyes was some sort of trigger for the heavy weight of nothingness to drop down. Being awake only frayed the rope to its last thread, and now it all sat upon his chest, crushing and tugging at every bit of him. Stitches pulled and stretched at his skin, stitches he had no memory of weaving. Pain flared, dull but present, on the right side of his face, and hands reached for the sting. When grimy fingers brushed his cheek, a choked sort of sound left his throat, some mix of a groan, of a scream, of a sob, all muffled, for the thought of hearing a voice he didn't remember scared him.

Not remembering scared him.

When the pains in his body dulled to their regular aches, the muffled noises switched to something like wheezing. It was easy to make the switch, for all he felt was a push and a push and a push. Things were closing in, things were getting stuffy, things were getting claustrophobic.

Wasn't there someone to help him last time, or was he only basing that on delusions?

A hand went to his chest, his own, and he went to thinking as a means to alleviate the pressure. His brain hurt with the strain of trying to remember - but no matter how much of a headache he gave himself, nothing but the barest of details surfaced over trembling waves.

Carrick Stray. My name is Carrick...Carrick Lee...Stray. Carrick Lee Stray, yeah, that. An inhale, an exhale. They made his body quake. I am eighteen, er, seventeen - no, no - wait, yes, seventeen. Seventeen years old. His fingers relaxed against his palm as those details came clear. My name is Carrick Lee Stray and I am seventeen years old. I remember names of people I've never met. My face hurts like a bitch and I kind of feel like I've been run over, but it's tolerable.

It's tolerable.

He couldn't tolerate it.

Thinking maybe if he moved he'd be able to catch something, he spent the next few minutes easing himself to a sit, seams of open scars shifting against his back as he did so. A warmth filled his head, and though he moved slowly, he felt hints of dizziness rolling from one end of his skull to the other. His palm went to his forehead. Jesus Christ.

Taking in the room helped his nerves, and though he didn't know where exactly the bedroom was situated, he knew it was a bedroom. He sat upon some elegant sort of bed, something he imagined queens of lore would rest upon.

But he was not alone.

A rustle sounded to his left and he jumped, toosh slipping off the edge of the bed until he was situated precariously on his feet, staring over at the person draped in pillows. Blonde hair framed her cheeks, and a name flashed through his mind within an instant. Vynissa Lyna. He swallowed, waited for her to come to. Other names came to mind despite them being absent, and he clung to them in hopes that maybe they meant something.

Catastrophe Wonder. Nero Miranda. Reagan Faulkner. Wilden Zeroth. Ophelia Larkspur.

Memories sat just outside of reach, and he stretched and stretched, but nothing else but a faint portrait of their faces came to mind. Any train of thought he'd caught went off track soon enough anyhow, for Vynissa's rustling grew, and soon she was rubbing her eyes with the first traces of wakefulness. Carrick waited for the panic to settle on her face, but she only sat there, squinting.