A Painful Answer

“What do you mean, have been?” Sam pressed, now intent on testing out a theory on his own.

“You don’t—you don’t remember do you? Mother was right, he really did take everything from you.” Wren replied. Her voice warbled with an uneasy pity that was further conveyed by the doe-eyed sullenness that twisted her face.

“He? Who is he? Remember what?” Sam grasped frustratingly for another answer as he was yet again thrown into the maze of convoluted, storybook non-answers and strange talk. It was enough though, to know that he’d been here before and the sneaking suspicions surrounding Ireland were beginning to blossom. How though? How could he have stumbled into something like this?

“You’re in danger.” Was all Sam could hear before the ringing started. He didn’t realize how alluring the sing-song cadence of Wren’s voice was until it had been paved over by a flat, droning tinnitus that vibrated his innards and threatened to rupture his eardrums. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh, cry, or just keep staring. He didn’t realize how excruciating the pain was until he was doubled over. He tried to **** out words. A cry for help. A plea to make it stop. Anything. But he felt his stomach heave as soon as he opened his mouth and both he and Wren watched in horror as what should have been words manifested as an oozing, filthy dribble. It tasted like a breath of cigarette smoke and ran down his chin and sizzled as it touched the pavement. His breaths were ragged and each primal gasp for more air simply burned his chest.

There was an unease welling in his chest. A similar A feeling that was at once a homely, grounding warmth and a cold agitation. His mind conjured images of being lost at sea, kicking and struggling to stay afloat in an inky, thalassic murk. Of **** mists and the distended, bestial shapes they cloaked to hide them from the minds of men. He had been here before. The lost year. The streets. It all but confirmed the suspicions he that had just dawned on him. Even though the narrative was now apparent, his best attempts at trying to delve deeper only brought more agony. The pictures were flashes in his mind, but for some strange reason the synapses wouldn’t fire, and the story wouldn’t complete. The images burned him and the more he tried to follow them, the more the pain intensified. Wren was behind him now; her delicate hands were underneath his arms trying to heave him to his feet. He could hear her panicked voice trying to speak to him, but he was listening to her from underwater it seemed. Any form of communication was stifled as the burning in his chest seemed to shift and slide up behind his eyes and the ringing became unbearable. He could feel his face contorting, but Sam couldn’t even tell if he was actually screaming or not. Wren was dragging him around to his car door. The memories were flashing faster now, intensifying in scope and shape taking the form more of a waking nightmare than a simple image. He tried to kick out, to escape but his legs would not obey. He was fading in and out of consciousness now and he could feel his extremities grow weightless. It was as though whatever sea he’d been plunged into in his own mind was trying to expedite his departure back to the surface.