Seeing as he was alone and the presence he'd felt earlier[which he is still trying to decide if it were real or not] had completely vanished and abandoned him, Austin decided he didn't see the importance of verbalizing them, so he didn't. Instead, Austinhad decided to sit down, lay down and do some pushups. He didn't know why, it just felt right, like waking up stretching and yawning. And, though he had no idea how this would help him, he can say that his mind seemed less chaotic - Still chaotic, but not as much - And, after reaching 20 pushups, sit-ups and a minute-worth of planks, he heard it: the mechanical sound of something moving closeby.
Ears already locating the sound, he immediately identified the source of the sound to be the tube-like tunnel that ran along the back of his circular cell; Austin watched as ii dispersed a brown leather-bound journal with a bottle of ink and a quill with a black feather as if there for him. And, when three apples and a bottle of water had followed quickly after, Austin realised that they were. And, as Austin rushed forward, devouring the apples, and gulping down the bottle of water like he hadn't eaten in days, Austin found himself surprisingly full and only a little bit satisfied as far as hunger went.
But it was then, when Austin finished, that the dread of his situation had really sunk in. He was all alone, lost and couldn't even remember anything enough to escape wherever he was. He hoped his family knew where he was….Forgetting about what happens when he looked to deep for memories and answers, AUstin chased after that thought, searching for the the source, his desire to find those answers giving him the ability to last a little bit longer against the migraine and high pitch sound throbbing his ears and head as he searched for a face, but ended up not being able to find a face to place.
His family. Did his family know where he was? Did he even tell them where he was going? Probably not. He couldn't even remember why he was even here.
It hadn't registered to him just yet, but, as he thought more and more of these questions inside his head, he recognized an emotion that always seemed to dwell everytime he even thought of the word 'family' - A great grief that was easily lost-level. He knew he wasn't stupid. He knew it had something to do with his origins, specifically somethin about his family, but, everytime Austin searched the files of his mind for any memory - for any answers - the high pitched sound, the throbbing and the migraine, all of which only seemed to have gotten worse the longer he racked his brain for said answers - It made him halt in the search, forcing him to growl deeply and under his breath from the frustration. It was like knowing the answer to test because you practiced the same exact question all week before the test, only you can't remember the answer - Add migraines, head throbs and high pitch screams-like sounds with even more pain and exhaustion to the already thick pressure and frustration and that'll make a quarter of the frustration Austin felt.
Tired already, exhaustion already taking its toll from the mental effort used to repetitively try to access his memories - his past - the efforts of which were in vain, Austin, head throbbing louder than the thump, thump, thump of his speeding, pumping heart, Austin plucked the journal up and saw that it was, indeed, empty, and, when he checked the simple pens, he saw that they had ink in them, unused and there obviously for Austin to journal whatever he was feeling down.
Instead, he tossed them across the room, or cell, or whatever. This is beyond messed up, Austin honestly thought what had he done to deserve this kind of situation in the first place. As Austin plopped against the nearest wall of his cell, he sighed heavily, feeling totally lost and alone, his insides hollow as a sort of phantomized grief threatened to swallow him whole. He was vaguely aware of how it had a muscle-memory feel to it, as if it was less of what he was currently, and more of what his body remembered feeling before the loss of his memories. But he hadn't thought too much about it.
No, Austin's mind was really grasping at straws - at some plan of escape.
It was almost as if by habit that his mind rushed ahead in such a way, but he didn't think about this, either. Instead, half an hour later, when finally stopped just thinking, Austin picked the journal and pen he threw away up and sat back down and began writing down his thoughts and feelings 𑁋Something that he'd grow accustomed to for the next 11 weeks in total isolation.