The man supposed it might be possible the cabin wasn't meant to be a permanent place of residence. He looked around the small room. He expected to see an old fashioned cooking stove or something, but there was nothing. There was the dirty mirror, the shabby bed, and the splintered wood beneath him--nothing more. It must be some sort of shelter, he thought, repurposed by his abductor.
He tried to remember what led him there, but his thoughts were obscured by clouds. Once again he wondered if he'd taken a blow to the head, but despite a lingering sense of weariness, he felt no pain that would indicate such a thing had occurred. He had his fair share of aches and pains all over his body otherwise, but he felt it was a pretty reasonable assumption that the bed was the culprit there.
There was no one around nor was there any indication anyone else had been in the cabin recently. If he had been brought there for some nefarious purpose then why had he not been bound in some way? After a short pause to reflect, the man reached out to test the rickety old door that barred him from the outside world. It pushed open easily, with an audible creak from age. Sunlight flooded the small room and the scent of the trees permeated his senses.
He stepped outside, savoring the feel of the soil beneath his feet. The sun was warm on his bare forearms. The overwhelmingly green landscape before him was bathed in sunlight. The cabin appeared to be located on a grassy hill overlooking a sea of trees. There wasn't a sign of another person anywhere in sight. The man was puzzled. He didn't recognize any of this.
If he couldn't recognize a single landmark in sight, then just how far had he been taken from home? If he'd been drugged by his abductor then it must have been a very powerful sedative. He wondered vaguely if he would experience any lasting health concerns. It was a strange thing to worry about considering the circumstances.
Absentmindedly, the man pawed through his pants pockets, expecting to find his phone. If he were to call someone, he could clear this up right away. Whoever had done this to him must have lost their nerve at the last minute and abandoned him there. Surely that was it. Maybe he had really dodged a bullet. He found nothing but lint.
He wanted to talk to her and tell her he was okay. He wanted to make sure she was okay. How was he going to find his way out of this without a phone? He wasn't a tracker. He very rarely left the house under normal circumstances. He couldn't recall the last time he'd gone for a walk, much less went hiking in the woods. He'd been dragged along once or twice by some friends, but he'd made a point of not making it a regular occurrence.
Her face floated into his field of vision. It was. . .hazy, indistinct. He tried to recall the sound of her voice, that lilt that was unique just to her. He could remember it, just barely. He realized with a jolt that he was having a hard time visualizing her. It had only been a day since he'd last seen her, at most. Maybe he had taken a blow to the head.
He felt ashamed that she had disappeared from his subconscious. The man was certain the same would never happen to her--not in a million years. She had a wonderful memory, and a knack for memorizing names and faces. She could recall a person's name years later if she had only met them once. She had a way of making everyone she talked to feel important. He felt sure that even if their relationship had gone south, she'd still remember. She'd remember everything about him when she was an old woman.
His thoughts were hazy. He had no idea how he had gotten here or how long he'd been sleeping on that awful bed. She was probably worried about him. He was worried about himself. He cracked his knuckles, as he was apt to do. It was sort of a nervous tic--he did it he wasn't sure what else to do. Unlike most people, who cracked their knuckles to rid themselves of stiffness in their joints and then were unable to do so again until some time had passed, the man was capable of cracking his knuckles repeatedly. He tried it a few times to make sure he still had that "talent." As far as he could tell there was no particular benefit to doing so. He'd heard a few years ago that repeatedly cracking one's knuckles could be detrimental to one's health--but he didn't really care.
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