The Unwritten

The Unwritten Part V - Tom

Slowly and painfully, Tom tried to stand. His side hurt and there was blood all over the floor. He held his wound but the blood there was congealed and sticky. As he pulled himself up from the floor by the counter’s edge, he got about halfway up, and then slipped.

He held on but that only served to swing him like a pendulum. His feet flying out from under him, he hit the table he had been lying on, shoving it closer to the wall. The table seemed heavier than he'd expected it to be, but when his butt hit hard against the floor, it jarred his side wound as his ribs compressed and he grimaced, trying hard not to cry out.

His fingers failed him as they slipped off the edge of the countertop and then the back of his head and his back both slammed down hard onto the dirty, wet floor; sticky with his own blood, and another's.

The light was dim now but off to the side he could make out the beast of a man still impaled to the door frame. Beyond him he could see outside, and in the near distance, the treeline. Luckily, there seemed to be no one about out there.

As he lay on the floor for a few moments, he again remembered the ceiling and quickly searched it, but to no effect. There was nothing there. Nothing for now, to fear.

And what the Hell was that about, anyway?

Tom realized he was just lying there, essentially waiting for whatever the lethal thing was. So gritting his teeth, he rolled to his side and started to get back up, ignoring the pain. The wetness of his blood on the floor transferred from beneath him through his clothes to his skin.

It was disconcerting to say the least and made him uneasy. But the pain overwhelmed any care about hygiene or decorum and soon he was able to stand unsteadily back on his feet. The first time now in, how long? How long had he been here? Half a day? Longer? He never wore a watch and his cell phone was missing.

He checked for his wallet and of course, it too was absent. He tried to remember his last thoughts before waking up here, but there was nothing. That was a different kind of amnesia however, than if he simply couldn't remember anything immediately previous to his waking in this place. As if he had been in an accident or suffered a trauma. This seemed more like an issue involving drugs. Had he been drugged? Doped up and kidnapped? He felt the back of his head, waiting for the throbbing to subside.

Then he felt around on his body but it was his stab wound that most noticeably hurt. He could find no symptom or anything else that would indicate he had been in an accident (had he been driving a car?); or indicated he had been beaten into unconsciousness prior to waking here. Tom leaned against the counter and closed his eyes. He lifted his face to the ceiling and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head.

Opening his eyes, he saw the ceiling and remembered the past few minutes here. A cold sweat broke out all over his body, goose bumps rose nearly everywhere on his skin. Cool air was wandering in from the open front door which he tried not to look at, but knew he had no choice other than to close, or exit it.

He shook his head, trying to jar himself to clarity without having to slap his face. That just seemed so cliché, and childish. He realized how thirsty he was. Looking around he found some glasses. They didn't seem that clean, though. He turned on the tap, brown red water poured out into the sink. It was disgusting and gave off an odd smell.

He was feeling dehydrated and knew that between the loss of blood and dehydration, he needed fluids in his system. Looking around, there was no fridge to search for milk or juice, or cold water. There was nothing. He left the water running in the hope that it might clear up, and checked through the cupboards. There were some odd things in them, but little one might expect in a normal kitchen in an old cabin.