MUDDY WATERS

Whichever Deadly Valleys

The mists only lifted slowly, when he jerked himself back into awareness, but they left him with a pile of insecurities. Squinting against the invasion of greyish light, he scrambled up on his elbows. The sharp stench of excrement emitting from the mattress underneath him and the oncoming throb between his temples incited a bout of nausea in the pit of his stomach.

Where was he? What was this place?

He could make out other mattresses like his, lined up and empty. Gaping holes for windows spat a cold breeze out on him. Goosebumps rippled over his back in reply. He tried to push into a sitting position, but his muscles rebelled. A muffled gasp escaped him, when he dropped back on the dirty sheets. The smell overwhelmed his senses. He gagged up a mouthful of bile and wiped his lips with a groan.

Why was he here? How had he got here? What was he doing--?

He blinked his eyes against the oncoming tidal wave, pushing up on all fours, but still wobbly. Another wary look around.

What had happened? ... What was the last he ... What had ever happened?

Grappling at the unknown shores of his memory, his heart began to pound in a tantrum. Memory.

Why didn't he remember? Why? What did he remember?

He sat back on his feet; the shortage of blood fueling his brain cells clouded his view with light spots. A dull pain blossomed where his feet dug into his flesh. He felt his pulse in his mouth.

What day--?

How old--?

What was his--? Or--?

Last Christmas--? Yesterday--?

Was there any--?

Who. Was. He?

He gulped in a mouthful of air. This was temporary. Wasn't it? Wasn't it? No, better, this was a dream.

He felt his hopes squelching. Who was he?

He had to remember. One didn't just forget everything one was.

A gasp, and another, rasping inhales, exhales, faster, faster. The world began to spin and he whimpered.

What should he do? Where should he go? Who would help him? How should he go on like this?

A cold fist clenched around his heart.

What if he was a criminal? Or an addict? What if someone had it in for him? What if ... He was alone. ... Vulnerable. ... And he didn't remember. ... God, what should he do? ...This would never be alright again ...

With a sudden force, the rapid breathing broke into sobs.

This wasn't right. Why was this happening? He didn't want this!

Reality seemed to cave in around him. His body was an earthquake. He felt his tears and his sweat, as he pressed both his hands over his face, and heard his voice, a strange song of pain, which he took ownership of over the fact that it spilled from his mouth.

He didn't know how long he just sat there, rocking himself, snot seeping through his fingers, but as all storms dry up, his weeping quietened, and left him with the bottomless knowledge of knowing nothing. The menace of thought scraps gravitated back to 'what now', drowning the bouts of panic like a numb mantra. And as the crying was done and he empty, he knew he couldn't sit here forever.

A voiceless sigh shook his limbs and, picking himself up in a slow tumble, he looked around once more.

Yet again, dirty mattresses. Nine in number. Dust sailing the air against stale sun rays. The paneled floor was weathered and broken in places. Nails stuck out here and there, declaring battle to his naked feet. He faltered. Glanced down at himself, a frown crawling upon his brow.

No shoes, no socks. No dirt. A pair of jeans, ripped at the knees, bloodied. A sweat shirt, boldly proclaiming the wearer as 'ORIONER'.

Reading upside down made him dizzy. He stumbled slightly, but caught himself against the mouldering doorframe. Beyond, a dark staircase gaped unwelcomingly.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. The irony lay therein that forgetting the forgetting, or at least ignoring it, was the only remedy for his frantic heart. Bitter laughter bubbled up in his throat. It dislodged something heavy. His voice sounded young.

He dug his hands in his jeans pockets to distract himself and unearthed a battered money chip reading '28.3' in feeble flickers. That wasn't much to go on. Wherever he was, it wouldn't get him further than a couple of miles. The police weren't an option. No sane person would go to them if they were actually helpless. He would wind up in a cell or the madhouse, if he got lucky. Apparently, there was something he hadn't forgot.

He checked the front pocket of his sweat shirt for good measure. The contents were a half-finished pallet of what he suspected were painkillers, a writing stylus and a ginger throat sweet.

Involuntarily, he swallowed, and felt a soft ache he hadn't paid much mind before. He scrunched up his nose, grasping at a conclusion, but put the things back none the wiser.

He sighed once more, thoughtfully, and with a sudden surge of determination thus far unfamiliar to him made for the staircase to his right. The darkness devoured him greedily, as he felt his way over the battered wood, each step creaking. The rail that was guiding his hand was embroidered with charred craters that were likely the signature of a phaser gun missing its aim. Further down he spotted a large mahogany stain which he assumed to be blood. His insides squirmed. The only thing that was of some consolation to him was the fact that it seemed to be quite old and therefore could not testify to the circumstances he was involved in.

He swallowed and averted his eyes, instead tagging along with a thin stripe of light that led him to a mottled iron door. It squawked at being pushed open and left his shoulder coated in rust. His eyes stung at the assault of sudden brightness. He squinted and lifted his hand in a weak attempt to shadow his face. New tears forced over the rims of his eyes. It felt like freshly climbing out of the womb. Confused and aching and bare. A blank sheet waiting to be scribbled upon.

Carefully, he set his foot upon the asphalt before him. It was dragging along the street like a grey tongue, a mismatch of collapsing houses lining either side. It didn't seem like any respectable soul would pitch camp here, or anyone who had a choice. The deserted feel breathed the spirit of The District, and The District was a very dangerous place.

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Disclaimer: The man (boy) in the funny hat belongs to Doyle. Sherlock belongs to his ancestors Mofftiss. Star Trek is Gene Roddenberry's love child. The story is mine. Great thanks to Twitter's @RosettaYorke, YorgosKC and MartyCameron for their love and support!

Constructive criticism is always appreciated. Visit me on Twitter (@brainsandsocks) for poetic ramblings, singing and updates. Long life and prosperity! 🖖