Humane: showing compassion or benevolence.
White: pallid or pale.
The world was a blur, whatever drug they had given him beginning to wear off. He hurt, but was still breathing. A small mercy, maybe. He would decide later.
Stretching his legs he felt metal against his toes.
What the fuck?
He looked down instinctively, but was unable to focus. Reaching out instead, he could feel some sort of mesh surrounding him. There was barely room to move.
He could not remember anything, not even his name. And he was pretty sure he had a name.
How the fuck did I get here?
And why can’t I see?
He tried to speak, the sound formless and guttural; his throat felt as though he had been gargling glass.
I need a drink.
He tried again, this time more softly, more slowly, and the word came, albeit reluctantly.
Not that he believed anybody was there; the room was far too quiet. He just needed the comfort that came from actually doing something.
Now that he thought about it, he knew he was in a room, sensing the walls not far beyond the cage. Not that he was superhuman, he could simply hear them, the subtle reverberations and errant reflections caused by the blood pumping through his veins, the electricity passing through the wires in the plaster, the air stirring motes of dust. No room was truly silent; indeed, nothing was truly silent. There were always giveaways.
And he could feel them, too, to an extent; there was a coolness that came from the floor and ceiling, the flat surfaces connecting them.
A small room, then.
He concentrated, listening.
Wait — was that a voice?
“Hello?,” he tried again.
But no; he was mistaken.
He closed his eyes.
© JR Bryden, 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from JR Bryden is strictly prohibited.