II

Black. Cold.

Beat. Beating.

His mind was trying to fight the darkness, but the slow pounding inside his head wasn’t enough to keep him conscious. The dull thud was like an explosion growing louder and louder. Feeling the heat of the fire once more, he thought he was in the very depths of the inferno.

Beating.

Feel? Feeling…

Open.

No. Yes, feeling cold. Open, try to open.

Noise, hear.

See…to see, seeing…open…eyes.

White. Cold. Open.

He remembered nothing. His head was nothing but a box of broken toys; a jig-saw puzzle.

A white canvas lay before him. Piecing together his thoughts, he attempted to come up with a distinct picture.

Feet?…No. Hands…my hands.

Beating. Pain.

His head was now pounding like a drum. He remembered now that the surrounding whiteness had a name. It was no longer a metaphor.

Hands sunk into the coldness as he attempted to hold his own weight.

Snow.

Nearly loosing consciousness again, the man pushed himself up and swayed for a moment in the snowstorm. Stumbling forward he clutched at his chest. He was fully clothed, but lacked the warm garments for the harshness of winter.

Snow, ice, cold. Warmth, fire, heat, food.

Then, through the white, he saw the outline of a building. As he continued forward, more shapes came into view and before long the man was standing before a small bridge stretching over a frozen moat.

His own breath was the last thing he noticed, before he fell into darkness.

Chapter Three