He awoke in a haze, only dimly aware of his surroundings. He clumsily pawed the other side of the bed, expecting to find her there--but instead his had caressed nothing but a cold bed sheet. His eyes fluttered open gradually, but his vision refused to come into focus. All that he beheld was a blurry sea of only vaguely recognizable shapes. He groaned. His entire body was wracked with various pains and aches. He felt as if he had been in bed for most of his life.
It was colder than he remembered it being when he had fallen asleep. He could just barely sense the shafts of sunlight filtering in through the window but still a chill persisted. It wasn't frigid, but it was just cold enough to be bothersome. It was the kind of cold that made you want to pull a blanket over yourself, but this man had no blanket. It was just cold enough to provoke a restless and unsatisfying rest. That must be what had happened. His aches and pains must stem from a night of fitful sleep.
He tried to grasp the shaft of sunlight and hold it for his own. He wanted to wrap himself in its golden warmth. The sun would be his blanket. It refused to bend to his call and continued to stubbornly pierce his field of vision. Stars were dancing in his eyes now, but his surroundings were becoming clearer. Or perhaps they weren't. This didn't look right at all.
The walls were constructed from textured, oaken logs, their grooves and contours shaped ostensibly by the effects of nature. Here and there were small openings through which peeked sunlight--and the chill air. Reflexively, he tried to draw his blanket closer around him, but as he had learned before it was no longer there. Upon further inspection, he then came to realize he wasn't even in his own bed--no small surprise considering he'd not once beheld the place he currently resided.
Panic had yet to permeate his thoughts. He was too sleepy and disoriented for that to happen. He was instead experiencing a lazy sense of bemusement. He had awakened in a bed not his own in a house not his own. Well--calling it a house was a rather charitable way to put it. It was more a shack or a cabin. It was tiny. It was unlikely to be suitable as a place of residence for more than one person at a time. It was comprised of one small room and unless he missed his guess, had not been lived in for some time.
The bed was a shabby thing, the mattress torn and tattered, springs jutting out in some rather unfortunate places. He grimaced as he shifted his weight and felt the painful prick of a spring in his left shoulder blade. He couldn't imagine ever sleeping on such a bed of his own free will--he'd much rather sleep on the floor! Regardless, it seemed he'd found the culprit responsible for his miserably aching body. As weary as he remained, he did not desire to remain in the bed any longer. With a concerted effort, he managed to extricate himself from it and struggle to his feet.
His head was swimming. How long had he been asleep? Had he been carried off by thugs and abandoned in the woods? He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans, searching for his things. No car keys. No wallet. It didn't really mean anything. He usually left them on the night table next to his bed at night, along with his glasses. He rubbed his bleary eyes once more. Right. His glasses. That might explain why he couldn't see very well.
For a long time he just stood there, struggling to think through the situation. It was difficult for him to put his thoughts in order. There was a colossal block on his mental pathways, preventing him from assessing the situation. He felt as if he'd been hit in the head with a rock. For all he knew he had been. He ran his fingers experimentally through his longish brown hair, searching for a lump that might indicate he'd been attacked. He found nothing.
The pain in his head was more of a mental pain, anyway. He couldn't think. The cold air was raising goosebumps on his bare forearms and continued to be a source of great irritation. The coarse wooden floor beneath him was cold, too. He paced a few steps, trying to work circulation into his limbs. He felt a few blades of grass between his toes. This place had been uninhabited long enough for the very floor to become overgrown.
The man caught sight of a filthy mirror hanging from a nail on the wall opposite the bed. He couldn't see his reflection very clearly from that distance, so he advanced toward it cautiously. What greeted him was a somewhat surly, imposing face, engulfed by a wild and shaggy beard--though it had not yet grown long enough to spill onto his chest. The man in the mirror knitted his eyebrows on confusion. That man in the mirror, though clearly recognizable as the man looking into it was also like a stranger. How might a man become so divorced from his sense of self that he fails to recognize the man that looks back at him in the mirror?
He made a few experimental expressions in the mirror. He raised an eyebrow. He gave an exaggerated frown. He smiled, though refused to show his teeth. He never showed his teeth. The man was pretty sure he'd heard somewhere that showing teeth was a sign of aggression in the animal kingdom. He held no delusions that he was superior to those animals. Also, he was sensitive about his crooked teeth.
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