Chapter Text
The first thing that comes to you is pain.
For some unknown length of time, it is the only thing you register. You assume, however, that time passes because the pain is spreading. It starts at what you later realize is the base of your head, traveling from there further along your body. It's as though something is inside you, spreading to every part of your form, mapping it out. The eyes, nose, mouth, to make a face. The neck, the ribs, the spine underneath to make a torso. With every additional millimeter you recognize more parts of your body. All at once aching and burning as though some parasite is hollowing you out. The feeling it leaves behind is like coals hot enough to burn in the emptiness.
It's when you're reminded you have shoulders - aching as though about to break under intense pressure - that you also become aware of the tongue resting at the roof of your mouth. The taste that comes with is abhorrent. It makes you want to gag and though your awareness of your own body is still dim, you think you do. All you can taste on your tongue is rot and ash. It's stale and you have no other taste to compare it to but you're sure this is the taste of death.
What on earth is happening to you?
The next senses return to you one after the other, so rapidly you can hardly tell which is first. It's smell, you think. It isn’t noticeable at first because what you smell is near enough to what you taste. Ash and rot and sweat and the realization that you are dying. But you are not dead. After all, the dead cannot see. And despite whatever horror it is that you are suffering through you can see, now. A red canopy above you, sheets to your left and right. Figures standing further back, too blurry to make out any details.
It's a poor distraction from the pain. By now you're certain the wriggling parasite inside you has reached every part of your body, mapped it all out. You jerk around as though it will help you escape the pain. Instead, agony spikes with every twitch and you can’t even manage to shift far. Something is keeping you in place, as every joint, muscle and bone beg for this torture to end. It does not.
Everything aches. You feel at once empty and full of rot. It feels like the thing inside of you, that’s mapped and carved rivers of pain, is consuming you. You’re not sure you can keep your mind together like this. It might just break apart and float away, running down the trails carved in your body. But something tells you that you cannot let go. It’s vague, but there, a recollection that has you gritting your teeth against the pain and chanting, over and over I must not forget I must not forget I must not forget I must.
You try to pull other memories into focus, to distract yourself. Your time at university, your mother singing a lullaby, your favorite meal made better by tasting it far from home. It works, a bit, easing the pain for a moment. So, you claw at your mind in an attempt to recall more. Your father smoking a cigar, your Jugendweihe, your first kiss with your soulmate. The chase of relief occupies your attention, enough that you do not notice what happens to your memories after they enter your mind.
You're forgetting them. Every memory that eases the pain, you’re forgetting like your time in the FDJ, turning your back on home, finding a place you belong.
You try to stop the memories from slipping through your mind or else to recall them again, but you cannot. They’re gone. You no longer recall your mother tongue, the degree you worked so hard for, the time you broke your leg.
In your desperation to cling to them, your memories only fade quicker. But the tunnels this parasite carved under your skin are filling. Eventually you no longer ache with the emptiness. It feels like something is missing from you – your favorite song, your terrible attempts at dating, your clenched jaw as someone makes an incision at the back of your head – but you cannot recall what. You can hardly recall anything other than lying here, thrashing and in pain. The taste of decay on your tongue. You stare up above you. Everything is red, red, red. It reminds you of – nothing.
The last of your senses to return is hearing. It comes slowly, then all at once. At first you notice only chains rattling and movement on fabric. You think - hazy still, the pain is muddling your thoughts - that you can see a bit more if you concentrate hard enough and move your head around. You're chained by leather wrapped around your wrists to bedposts. Ah. Then someone anticipated your thrashing about.
With a feeling like your eardrums are unplugging, your hearing begins to return - and how odd, that you notice that beyond the pain.
It's a terrible sound. A raw, repeated screaming, that seems to come from all around you. It's not very loud at first and you're not sure whether that's because of the volume or because your hearing is coming back, bit by bit, but the sound grates on you. You wish it would stop. You're tired. Every part of you hurts and aches. Your throat is raw. Is it you that's screaming? You're so tired. You pay attention to the way your throat moves, how it seems to match the word you hear, repeated over and over again. It must be you screaming then, but - you're so, so tired.
Moment by moment sensation seeps from you again. First touch, then taste, then smell and sight, one after the other. As your hearing grows indistinct you think you’re still screaming that word. A name? Before consciousness fades from you as well, you think: who is Bela?
When you regain consciousness, it takes you a while to notice. In fairness, most of the previous indicators are gone. There's an ache that feels like it's settled deep in your chest but it's nothing compared to the agony of before. Breath comes slowly, calmly. You lay there a moment as you wait for the pain to return. It does not, so for now you just keep breathing.
That soon becomes boring. Your mind fixes itself on determining your circumstances. An inhale, a short exhale. Because you are breathing, you must be alive. You cannot think of a creature that breathes but does not live. Thinking of counterexamples, creatures that breathe and live, makes your head ache but you manage. Cats. Dogs. Humans. You’re one of the latter, you think.
Inhale, exhale. Over and over again. You are alive, but what else? When you try to move, you exhale. Almost no pain now. Briefly, you wonder at the strange jumps and gaps in your logic. You struggle to think of animals – that is what they are called, cats and dogs and humans – yet you can conceptualize pain, a sense of self and the sinking feeling that something is wrong with you.
Best to think of other things, then. There may be gaps in your knowledge, the breadth and width of which you cannot fathom, but you know you cannot lay here forever. Certainly not if you wish to go on breathing. What to do then? More importantly, why? It could be safer to stay here, laying on something soft and inviting until you forget how to think as well.
How boring. You dislike boredom, you think. Letting your mind wander eases the boredom a bit. There are so many questions you have no answer to. And you realize you do want answers. Why you are here, why you went through your earlier torment, why you remember so little. That might be goal enough; to find answers to your questions and stave off boredom.
A while later - you do take some time to enjoy the softness of whatever you're lying on first - you crack open your eyes. The bed’s canopy above you is still red, though it's softer than you recall. Letting your head flop to the side tells you why: Through a large window, its drapes the same red as above you, you can see the moon.
The sight of it stirs something in you. That strange pressure on your chest intensifies, makes you want to prowl dark hallways lit only by the moon and - do what, you do not know. You decide the feeling is uncomfortable and thus try to ignore it. Instead, you look around at your surroundings.
There's wallpaper, some paintings, a bedside table. It all looks very expensive and most of all unfamiliar. You crane your neck up, following the line of your arm. Oh. Your wrists are no longer shackled. That's nice. You decide to celebrate this discovery by attempting to sit up and get a better look at the room as a whole. You would have thought your bones, muscles, something would protest at the sudden movement but your body follows your command without complaint. It's a refreshing change.
The sudden movement does not go unnoticed though. A young woman is sitting on a stool at the end of the bed, her head leaning against a bedpost. She must have been outside your peripheral vision before.
"Oh!" She says, and it's almost a squeak. "You're awake! Please, stay seated, I'll go fetch the Mistress."
Several thoughts flit through your head, enough that it's difficult to grasp one and focus on it. Why did it briefly smell of sweets? Why did the woman mention this 'Mistress' like you're supposed to know who that is? Why is there a strange resistance when you try to swing your legs off the bed?
The last thought finally manages to hold your attention. You look down at your bare legs and realize they're still chained to the bedposts. You suppose you ought to try and break free, but the way you only manage to tug weakly on the chains tells you you're unlikely to be successful. You hope you're not always so weak and scatter-brained.
With little else to do but wait for whoever this 'Mistress' person is, you first gaze down at yourself, only to find little of note. Your skin is dark, reflecting the moonlight. You're dressed in a thin nightgown - you're not sure why but the thought of lying there undressed mortifies you. There’s also a mark on your left wrist. A compass rose, its upper tip pointed slightly to the left.
Next, you look around the room and realize that anything further away than your arm span is somewhat blurry. When you look to the right you spot a pair of thick glasses in a metal frame. You have to blink a few times after putting them on but your vision is much clearer now. For now, you elect not to question the terms and concepts popping into your head as you encounter them. Nightgowns and compasses and glasses. Later you could make a list, perhaps, and interrogate this further.
With your sight improved, you look around the room properly for the first time. It's not the slightest bit familiar and, when you spot a mirror and gaze into that, neither is the reflection that stares back at you. You study it some, moving your head side to side and scrunching up your face to make sure that yes, this is your reflection.
Your hair, curling and falling just above your shoulders, is apparently even darker than your skin. Behind the glasses, your eyes look red. Your ears, too, are unusual. Long and pointed upwards almost to the top of your head – and are those horns sprouting from your hairline? You reach up a hand to confirm. They’re horns. That – that likely isn’t normal, is it? Humans don’t have horns; of this you are certain.
Frustrated, you run your hands through your hair. The action is calming until you reach the back of your head. Your hair is shaved away and the skin there is raised; probing further reveals that an open wound is the cause. On instinct you jerk your hand away.
You're trembling now, quite suddenly. You've been fully awake a few minutes at most and it is sinking in that apart from the previous torment of unknown length, you recall nothing. Your mind races, grasping for anything familiar, here in this room or in your thoughts but you come up empty-handed. You can't focus, can't think, can do nothing but stare at this unfamiliar reflection that somehow, cruelly, is you, a stranger to yourself and as you lift your hand to cover your mouth as it draws in big, heaving breaths you realize your canines are sharp enough to nick the skin of your hand as you graze it - it doesn't hurt, not much, but still tears spring to your eyes. You cover your mouth with both hands now and, drawing your limbs closer to make yourself as small as possible, still staring into your reflection’s eyes, wide and unblinking, you think: What in the world is going on here?
The door flies open and with it all thoughts from your head as you scramble backwards until the chains around your ankles stop you. A large black hat appears through the door.
"I must say, dear, you gave us all quite the fright."