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He awoke in strained gasps. Sounds first. Then pictures. Frozen, sopping grey encaged him on all sides. Every inch of vision wavered in varying shades of black. Shards of invisible glass stabbed through his flesh from every angle. He had been trampled by a steam engine, mauled beneath the mightiest cogs of a clocktower, and shoved from the ledge at the very instant the bell announced an hour anew.
Every inch of him begged for reprieve.
His head throbbed.
His back ached.
The desperate pulsations of his heart could be felt all the way to the veins of his forearms. His legs too, long and spindly, had somehow been pinned beneath him; now asleep, numb, and useless.
With enormous concentration, he attempted to prise his head from the cold grey, only for it to lull backward with an excruciating thud.
He wasn’t dying.
Not yet, anyway.
He recognized what it was to be in death’s presence: the cold fluid in one’s chest; the blind terror claiming one’s vision. He had frequently witnessed the bitter, metallic taste of blood as it rose up from the throat and filled one’s mouth.
These; however, were not his symptoms
No, this was something quite different.
Something worse.
Hell.
When one knows they are dying, they have two options: to fight and raise hell against the one thing eventually shared between all living beings, or accept the aching void with dignity.
With silence.
He had seen a great many men die with incredible acceptance that it was their time. Their moment. Some considered themselves heroes, and would therefore leave the earth with dutiful etched permanently upon their soul. Others screamed fates unknown; perishing with nary a glimpse of hope. There was something in their eyes he daren’t try to remember.
Something horrifying.
Something fierce.
Something that plagued both the poor and rich alike; grabbing their bodies at the very last second.
Fear.
The tall man again attempted to raise himself from the dampened grime, but once more tumbled back with a sharp gasp and a hand thrust against his side.
Fear.
Yes, he had been afraid before. Terrified, in fact. He had witnessed entire ships blown to pieces and oceans churning red with human blood. He had watched flesh burn and stars fall. He had watched helplessly as lives shattered around the broken corpses of children: innocents who had known nothing of prejudice and hatred, but died all the same. And, through it all, there was a bit of him—an evil, despicable darkness—that prayed that he would not be next; that he would live while others fell.
But then he grew older—perhaps even wiser—and no longer wished to be spared. He was ready to go. He had wanted to go.
But not now.
A searing fire shot through his back; forcing him to cry curses deep into the blurring grey. His voice bounded around his ears and shook something large and looming off to his right.
No.
It didn’t shake.
It moved.
He pried open his mouth to shout again as another wave of intense suffering overcame him, and yet he could not manage an uproarious call. He could only choke out a single word.
One word.
A question.
“Lawrence?”