Chapter 03 The Repeating Nightmare

  Darkness clung to him, oppressive and complete. His head was a maelstrom of shattered thought, half consciousness. Then came the first touch—burning cold, pounding against his skin. He drew in air, or so he thought. His chest closed, but no sound came. Panic stormed through him like flame, consuming reason, seizing control.

  He was bound by something he could not feel.

  He tried to move, but his limbs were foreign, uncooperative. Some unseen weight held him down, pressing him into the firm mattress beneath him. Every attempt to lift an arm or shift a leg ended in trembling failure. His body was weak, weaker than he could comprehend.

  A shadow moved beside him. That woman again. Gentle hands stroked his face, his forehead wiped with a cool cloth. She spoke—words soft and unintelligible. A language he did not know.

  That recurring terror gripped him again—he was a stranger in his own flesh.

  He fought to form words, but his tongue lay thick and lifeless in his mouth. He willed his lips to part, his throat to force out a sound, but only a pitiful wheeze escaped. The woman frowned, speaking again in that unknowable language. Her voice was warm and concerned, and the more she spoke, the deeper his shame twisted within him.

  He could not speak. He could not move.

  His body betrayed him further as the woman gently lifted him, propping him against a mound of pillows. His head lolled helplessly. He tried to brace himself, to steady his balance, but even that simple act was beyond him. His limbs dangled uselessly, his fingers twitching as if seeking a memory of movement they had long forgotten.

  Then came the worst of it. She lifted a spoon to his lips, filled with a thick, warm porridge. He recoiled internally, humiliation burning through him. He was being fed like an infant. The spoon pressed gently against his lips, and she coaxed him with quiet words when he did not react. His stomach clenched. He did not know how to chew.

  He forced himself to swallow, his throat convulsing awkwardly, barely managing to keep from choking. A drop of the porridge dribbled from the corner of his mouth, and the woman wiped it away with practiced care. She did not sigh, did not show impatience—only a quiet acceptance. But it made the shame no less searing.

  Suddenly, the door to the room was open, and a breeze rustled through the room, and his eyes drifted to the heavy curtains drawn across the windows. The thick fabric shielded against the drafts that slipped through the loose-fitting panes. He had seen such curtains before, hadn’t he? A vague memory that wasn’t his teased the edges of his mind about cold winter nights, the way thick fabric muffled the world outside. Yet the memory was weightless, disconnected, like a dream fading upon waking. He also knew he had never seen them before.

  He turned his eyes to the tall man with a cane who now stood at the door and looked down at him. The boy's gaze wandered downward. Shoes. Leather, well-worn, laced tightly against the feet of a man who entered the room. Shoes that spoke of an old world, hands that had stitched them with skill, and soles that had walked cobbled streets. Not the shoes, he remembered the look of only —sneakers, rubber soles, factory-made. The thought sent another shiver of panic through him. What was happening?

  Who was he?

  The man spoke with the woman in hushed tones. Their language, so familiar yet so alien, was lost to him. He could do nothing but watch, listen, and drown in the realization that he was helpless.

  And so he withdrew. Back into his head. From the shame, the helplessness, the odd world that now had him under its spell. He struggled to grasp something tangible, something familiar to cling to. But all he could find were fragmented images—names without faces, places that evaporated as soon as he tried to grasp them.

  So he drifted, lost, as the woman continued to care for him, as the world moved on without his understanding. And all he could do was wait for his body to remember how to be alive.

  NO!! I will not wait! The thought burned his pain and panic away.

  His passion and anger roared. No, he would not wait and would not be at the mercy of this terrible fate. He refused to be a prisoner in this body, a helpless shadow of himself. This time, the game would be played on his terms, and no force in this world would dictate his existence. Though he felt bound and chained, he would rage to break them. He would live.

  His eyes—his only asset now—scanned the room with renewed purpose. He drank in every detail, memorizing his surroundings, finding meaning in the most minor things. He had control over his sight, and he would use it. The flickering candlelight, the worn wooden beams of the ceiling, the folds of fabric on the woman’s dress—every observation sharpened his awareness, strengthened his mind.

  Panic had no place here. Panic was the enemy, a monster that wished to engulf him beneath. He had conquered fear before—hadn't he? The memory was vague, yet the determination it prompted was authentic. His mind was his own, and he would command the turmoil that threatened to consume him.

  A flicker.

  Something familiar. Moved at the edge of his eye for the first time. His life had been frozen, empty, a prison of silence and cold flesh. But now, behind the man, on the shelf, waiting, something real. Not a thing. Them! And they reached for him, clung to him, insisted on his attention with a violence that left no words.

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  His fingers twitched—a whisper of movement, the first sign of defiance.

  The weight of his body fought against him, but he would not yield. He poured everything—his will, his longing, his very soul—into that single limb. Move. Move!

  Agony tore through him. Exhaustion crashed like a wave, heavy and suffocating. His vision blurred.

  But he did not care.

  Because it was a beginning, he wasn’t broken. He wasn’t defeated, and he would fight.

  Those small cubes were the only things that felt real. Everything else—the room, the floor, even his own hands—felt ethereal, blurred as if he existed in a dream that refused to allow him to wake up. But those perfect, radiant cubes were different. Their pull was strong, clear, and firm in a world that shifted ceaselessly about him.

  He wanted them. Needed them! They were an anchor keeping him grounded from dissolving into nothing. But he could not touch them, could not hold them in his palms, no matter how hard he grasped. He could not even point to them as though his own body was betraying him, refusing to acknowledge what his mind knew to be true. All he could do was stare, drinking in their presence, terrified that they would vanish if he looked away, even for a second.

  And when he lost sight of them for even a moment, when something came between him and them, the panic hit like a drowning wave. His breath would catch in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a beast trying to escape its cage. His hands would shake, his vision narrowing, his mind screaming that without them, he would slip away, unravel, and cease to exist entirely.

  They were his anchor. The only proof that he was here. That he was real.

  And if they were gone… he didn’t know what would be left of him.

  …

  Watching their son fall back into troubled sleep, they shared a look.

  “He reacted to you,” the lady said, her eyes filled with hope. “He truly is starting to recover,” she whispered softly.

  …

  The darkness greeted him again. It had become a cruel routine—the waking moments filled with disorientation and panic, his mind snapping between fear and determination. The weight of his useless body pressed against the mattress, and for an agonizing moment, he fought for control, fought against the suffocating stillness that sought to imprison him.

  His breath dragged in slow, uneven pulls, each one a battle against the weight of his body. His mind was alert and sharp, but his limbs remained unresponsive and defiant.

  His eyes cracked open with a burning effort. The grey morning light filtered through the heavy curtains, casting torn golden beams across the wood walls. Dust motes shimmered in the still air, drifting in idle dance —mocking his immobility. Time dragged, but he was still imprisoned, trapped in the suffocating grip of his own body.

  Only his hearing told him the world stirred beyond these walls.

  And his hunt began again.

  His eyes darted frantically, searching for something—anything—to ground him, to prove he was still here. The scuffed leather shoes by the door, worn from running, from climbing, from life. The thick curtains were heavy enough to block out the cold, to shut out the world. The candle, its flame trembling but stubborn, fighting against the light of day. They were familiar, real. But they weren’t what he needed. They were not the ones he must find…

  ‘Where were they?’ he shrieked in his mind, the panic rising in him.

  His eyes grew dull. A dream forced itself to the front, asserting itself. Soldiers stood in disciplined lines, waiting. His voice had commanded them once, but he could not remember how. He saw them advance, steel flashing in the light of the day, cries of battle lost in the thunder of steeds and the ring of metal. Shootouts along riverbanks, frantic battles in backstreet darkness, grand armies drawn out across open fields—every battle had a thread leading back to those anchor points. The banner that led a charge, the torch that guided movements at night, the maps unfolded on a wooden table, pinned down with boulders. Not merely objects; tools that shaped destinies.

  The dream evaporated, leaving only the acrid knowledge that once he had been more significant than this brittle shell.

  There was familiar movement at his side. The woman, the one who cared for him, was once more there. He had come to recognize her presence, the steady breath rhythm, and the soft way she tucked the blankets around him. She murmured, the words still strange but not so threatening. He focused on her face, the lines of quiet strength in her expression, and the way she observed him, waiting for something—perhaps a flicker of improvement.

  The spoon came again. Embarrassment flared, but it was dulled, no longer the searing shame it had been before. He parted his lips, accepting the food, swallowing more easily than yesterday. Progress. Small, infuriating, but undeniable.

  The routine continued. She washed him with trained speed, and he accepted it, his mind looking outward rather than inward. He noticed things. He listened. The world outside of his direct fight began to unfurl.

  The march of time became more pronounced. The sun traversed the sky, its light changing from pale gold to a richer amber before dissipating into twilight. He noted the people who entered the room—some lingering in conversation with his caretaker, others appearing only briefly, their tones carrying different weights. A man with a lined face and weary eyes spoke to her in hushed urgency. A younger woman brought folded clothes, pausing only to glance at him before leaving. Their presence and patterns wove a rhythm into his days, a structure that was slowly becoming familiar to him.

  His world was still small, still confined to his bed and his silent observations. But he was learning. And soon, he would act.

  This was the longest he had remained conscious and observant. He could only remember losing to panic and darkness twice in what he thought was a day. His anger and fear flared when something new happened or when shame overtook him as he felt his caretaker cleaning him after he had voided himself. Each time, when the fog of panic lifted, a thought danced just out of reach, teasing him with its familiarity.

  And then, it became clear to him. It was a melody.

  He remembered moving his fingers—his right hand—tracing the contours of something brass. The memory was hazy, but the action had been effortless, an instinct rather than a conscious thought—a muscle memory.

  His breath hitched. If he had done it before, he could do it again.

  He commanded his hand to move, miming the motion he could almost feel. A quiet war raged within him, his mind screaming at the unresponsive limb. But then—

  A twitch. It was barely noticeable but real.

  His fingers trembled. A surge of triumph coursed through him. He willed them again, and again they stirred, just the faintest ghost of movement.

  He had done it.

  His first victory.