I wake with a start, moving my hands gingerly. Frost coats my face, and my jacket - my eyelids are frozen shut. With difficulty, I try to pull them open, and they come apart in a scattering of frozen crystals, the ice sprinkling over my face. I raise myself up off the ground on one elbow, grimacing against the glaring sunlight - I am on a hill, it appears.
I push upwards and clamber awkwardly to my feet, ice cracking and falling to the ground as I stand. I have no idea where I am. All I can see is endless frozen hills, horizon to horizon; not a tree in sight, not a jetstream in the sky, only hills coated in frost stretching out forever. Those, and the sun. The sun is a searing lance of pale fire burning across the sky, hanging just at the edge of the horizon: an incendiary star suspended in ice. Despite the sheer strength of its searching gaze, no heat reaches me, standing as I am in ski jacket and jeans, teetering on the precipice that separates land and sky. Instead, a cold chill reaches me: there is no cloud cover, just distant wraiths of mist hanging at the edges of the great blue expanse above.
I am exposed to the deathly chill of space, that bottomless vacuum of stars like the one that transfixes me on this hillside. I shiver, feeling suddenly alone. I am on my own. I unzip my jacket, searching its pockets for anything of use. The breast pocket is empty, as are the inside pockets. However, the right-hand side yields something unexpected: a small packet of mints. I'm feeling hollow and empty, so I unwrap the packet, take one out and place it in my mouth. It tastes refreshing, cold like the frozen wasteland that surrounds me, but with an aftertaste of slight staleness. I chew thoughtfully, placing the packet back in my pocket, and begin to walk, hoping for some sign of civilisation.
My name is… my name is strangely irretrievable, lost in broken folds of memory. Descending the hill, I frown in consternation, trying to recall what I am doing here in this surreal bleakness. I draw a blank - my mind is foggy and unclear. All I can remember properly are the events since waking up, the chill swirling around me. Everything is incredibly sharp and vivid, the edges of everything cutting into my vision.
I start up the incline of the next hill. It isn't particularly tall, or steep, but then again, neither are the rest of them, from what I've seen. I can't think why I wouldn't be able to remember anything, but perhaps that's why: I can't think straight about not thinking straight, which hurts my head, causing me to not think straight. I shake my head to clear it, instead revelling in the sensory experience provided by the crisp, clear air. It smells fresh, and clean of pollutants and dust.
I crest the hill, and look back. I see no difference from the view that I received from the other hill, except for the footprints marking my passage from the last summit. I turn back to the sun, hanging blindingly in the sky, and stop. I feel a sudden urge to hear something besides the unnatural silence, and open my mouth to speak. I can't bear the absence of noise.
I attempt to call out, and stumble back in surprise when an alien call unlike anything I've ever heard emanates from my mouth. I crease my brow in a worried frown, and attempt to speak again. A broken note sings out into the sky, pure yet somehow twisted. It sends chills down my spine, a primal tone of loneliness. I realise that I haven't heard my voice in ages. I attempt once more, this time trying to sing. And I do.
A chilling, emotional tune winds its way through the air, scything through the sky until the music fills the world, or at least it seems to. I take several slow steps, turning to identify the source of this strange sound; for my mouth is once again shut. I feel an urge inside me to move, to the tempo of the music. I begin to run, the music propelling me up and down the twisting frozen landscape, dancing on the clouds. The cold wraps around me like a cloth, fluttering in my wake like a torn ribbon, and I move fluidly through the frost and the glaring light, time appearing to speed up.
Not once does the sun dip in the sky over the hours that I must run for: instead it remains in the one place, perpetually burning with a chill, surreal light. I live in the moment, eyes closed, yet dancing along the crests of the hills as if possessed. I feel so detached, but somehow flooded with life. The song brings in fresh melodies, intertwining choral voices mixed with dramatic strings and quiet, fast drums.
There is a break in the song as I skip a step, taking a leap through the air. A piano begins to play softly, with a violin, or possibly a flute, in the background. I spin, flying over the frozen hills as the music draws me along. The main melody returns, and begins to build steadily to a dramatic crescendo.
I can hear the music building, reaching a climax, the steadily raising pitch and culmination of sound giving me a sense of something approaching. In fact, I think I can just about begin to see something in the distance. A city appears vaguely, shimmering in the glare of the sun, insubstantial as a heat haze, with three twisting edged spires rising from the ground like the claw of some great buried monster, lying in wait.
I strain to see, but with horrifying suddenness my shoes skid on the wet grass and my feet fly from under me.
I slam into the ground, winded. I cry out in pain, hands stinging - they are cut where the icy grass has sliced into them. I try to wipe them on my shirt, but the blood keeps coming. I let out a gasping sob, and I realise that the entrancing music has stopped. I push my hands together to attempt to staunch the bleeding, but the dark red liquid runs down my arms into my sleeves.
It seems impossible that something so beautiful could turn this quickly into a painful reminder of the harsh landscape that I now find myself in, but it has. And as I push myself to my feet, I find that my hands are no longer bleeding. In fact, my coat is once again coated with frost. Footprints are notably absent in the grass around me, and as I plunge my hand back into my pocket I find that the packet of mints is unopened. I am back on the hilltop where I started.
I sink to my knees in shock, crying with surprise. The half-glimpsed city is gone. The sun- no, the utterly alien blaze of light that lights the sky on fire - still searches across the hills, spearing me. The air is still bereft of cloud. The land is still empty of anything but frozen grass and endless hills. I look upward, and see the blue of the sky darken to a near-black above; the chill of the empty void still reaches for me. I shiver, and hug my arms to myself, tears running down my face. But to my horror, some of the tears are not water.
They are blood.
And what is worse -
The blood is not my own.
When Jamieson returned later that day he found that somebody had broken into his lab. There were shreds of skin strewn around the floor, and occasional bloody smears streaked the walls.
He felt nauseous just looking at it. He didn’t want to think about whoever it had been, what they had meant to other people, what grief it would cause to the families of this person, and all because he wanted to preserve his honour, it was his fault, all his fault.
Jamieson trembled and had to steady himself on an instrument tray. Shaking his head to clear his mind of the circular depressive thoughts, he stood up straight, with a pit in his stomach, and moved over to the patient strapped to the table.
As far as he could see, she was still asleep, though stirring slightly. He spotted the cause almost instantly: a splatter of blood lay across her face. He took a cloth from his pocket and wiped it from her forehead, taking care not to disturb her. Her frown cleared quickly, and Jamieson felt some relief that at least his experiment had not been disrupted.
He took out a mop, and spent several stressful minutes clearing up the scraps of flesh that lay about the floor. He carefully wiped the bloody smears from the walls, shuddering whenever the sticky red liquid came into contact with his flesh.
Jamieson was not a very brave man, and couldn’t stand the sight of blood. When he had been stabbed by his now-dead wife he had fainted almost instantly, and had only found the courage to detonate the little bladed nanoexplosives he had injected into her bloodstream far later, after he had had the wound cleaned and bandaged.
He remembered when they had retrieved her broken corpse, covered in tiny lacerations where the blades had spun through the skin. He remembered how it had been his fault, all his fault, and he deserved to die he deserved to die he deserved to lie in a pool of coagulated blood like she had, deserved to be torn to shreds like the four intruders had, to be strapped to the bed like his patients had and to have his mind stripped and burned like only he could do to himself.
Like he did to himself every day, in the dusty room in the Department of the Mind in the Spire of Science.
Jamieson stumbled, snapping out of his momentary self-absorbed trance. He quickly moved to one of the trays of instruments, selected an anti-depressant pill, placed it in his mouth, and swallowed. He instantly felt a lot calmer, a dose of oxytocin and serotonin invigorating him and banishing any stray thoughts to his subconscious.
He sat down on a stool in front of the large life-support machine, and tapped the display panel to wake the machine up. Something buzzed to life, and the panel lit up from the inside, tiny LEDs creating a slightly fuzzy readout before him. Jamieson had cobbled this part of the device together from the remains of an old 3D printer. He smiled at his own ingenuity, lifted the lid and placed a picture within. It was that of a small girl with a baby goat. The doctor had been mildly surprised to see the goat beforehand, since goats were increasingly rare these days, but he supposed it was possible. He had no idea of the patient’s background, only that she fell within the specifications he required for his final experiment. There was a sound of pistons firing as the lid was closed, and the mental download took effect.
8: Chapter SevenOkay, now is the point to admit that I have no idea what is going on.
The goat is a small one, with a little red ribbon tied around its head. It stares at me with a look in its eyes that reminds me of something-
My mind explodes with pain. Great blue arcs of electricity burst across my vision, glowing white with sheer force. My eardrums register the feeling of two spikes being driven into my head with sledgehammers. My bones feel ready to tear themselves from my body, my teeth crush into each other as if forced by a trash compactor, my entire being a searing, burning, white-hot vessel of pain. Just as I am almost overwhelmed, I close my eyes, and the pain shuts off. I collapse, eyelids squeezed together.
I dare not open my eyes. The fog clouding my mind has cleared somewhat.
I remember.
I’ve got to get out of here, got to find that sorry excuse for a scientist and wring his neck for doing this to me-
Something nudges my head. The fog crowds back in and coherently thinking about things is hard again. There is a bleat. Tentatively, I open my eyes a fraction, and spears of pain shoot through my mind again. Evidently that’s not a good idea. I move my hands forward and encounter the soft fuzzy body of the goat. It bleats again. I like it. I want to keep it.
So I pick up the goat, clutching it to my chest, and hug it for a bit. It’s nice. Its wool – fur – whatever it is – feels funny against this backdrop of freezing harshness. I block out all other things and hold it. I feel strange; warm and fuzzy. Sort of like the goat. It smells like warm animal, but I sense that it is cooling down quickly. It bleats in a forlorn manner.
I want to take care of it, so I unzip my jacket and place the goat inside, close against me, and zip my jacket up again. It struggles, briefly, and pokes its head out the neck of my jacket under my chin. It bleats again. I laugh out loud, the fur tickling my throat. I want to look at it, because it’s just cute, but I’m scared of the searing pain.
I remember, however, that the goat wore a ribbon about its head. A red shiny ribbon. The thought makes me pause. I can recall that ribbon, being given that ribbon and told something monumentally important.
Perhaps, I decide, that is what’s causing the pain. The goat just makes me feel happy. It struggles slightly and bleats. I feel a small tongue licking the underside of my neck and realise that it’s trying to eat the lapel of my jacket. I decide to remove the ribbon and put it in my pocket. With one hand, trembling slightly from the memory of pain, I untie the ribbon. My other hand cradles the creature beneath my jacket. The ribbon nearly slips through my fingers, a cold breeze trying to snatch it away, but I put it into my left jacket pocket. Ribbon left, mints right, I tell myself. It would be better to have the ribbon in the right, because that would be easier to remember, I feel, but it is what it is.
I open my eyes, and am happy to see that I am no longer experiencing visual torture. Instead I can see the goat clearly. It has cream-coloured fur, and a wet black nose. I think it has a cold. This marvellous deduction is backed up when it decides to sneeze on me. I feel cross for a moment, but when it looks up at me with large, pleading eyes, I relent. I will care for this goat. I shift my grip, and begin to walk again.
9: Chapter EightThat burning wasteland is always happening now for me – because it’s inside my own head. My own mind, laid bare for me to see, events replaying themselves constantly. The present before the past, the past before the present, everything happening at the same time.
In any case, how could I forget that one horrific moment?
I’ll get to that later.
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