Rain pattered down outside, tapping the window and drumming atop the roof.
The rhythm it provided drew me from my black-out slumber, waking me up to this new, excruciating day.
There I lay, atop a pile of trash, glass bottles digging into my back; black plastic covering my left side like a cheap blanket. My throat burned with every careful breath I took. I held a miniscule amount of saliva in my dry mouth, reluctant to swallow. If I did swallow, the mere motion of the sore muscles in my throat would choke me.
I stared listlessly at the ceiling through the dark, my head aching and throbbing painfully; causing my thoughts to be shallow and fleeting.
I struggled to run through the usual questions that anyone in this situation would no doubt have.
Where am I?
Why am I here?
Am I about to be murdered? Why?
And, like anyone else in this situation, I had no answers.
For now...
However, unlike others, my questions didn't end there...
Raising my fragile right hand into the air, I studied the hand that entered my view.
It was small.
It was the hand of a child...
A large gash punctured through the palm, causing drops of warm blood to drip down onto my face, trickling down my frozen cheeks.
This wasn't my hand.
At least, it wasn't before this day.
I lowered my hand back down onto the pile of trash, my gaze stuck back onto the ceiling. I absentmindedly traced the perimeter of the leather belt wrapped around my neck, fingers brushing against the holes meant for the buckle.
And with that, I had some new questions. Questions that I suppose would never have an answer...
I tilted my head to the side. What followed was a silent flash of lightning that lit up the room for a fraction of a second.
I was in a bedroom.
In that brief flash of light, I caught glimpse of an unmade bed, stained yellow from years of use. A singular teddy bear leaned against the bare wall with its loose head tilted to the side, vacant button eyes gazing at the dusty, wooden floor.
I ran my eyes across the outline of the bed in the dark, stopping at the foot.
At the foot of the bed was an outline of a door. It seemed the door was slightly left ajar, a world of darkness peaking through.
My gaze lingered on that darkness, a numb sense of curiosity sparking my dulled senses.
What was beyond that door?
Am I alone?
For some strange reason that last thought brought forth a creeping sense of anxiety that welled up in my throat, causing me to swallow. I clenched my eyes shut painfully, pressing my lips together; the motion of which tore the scab of the cut on my lip.
I...
...didn't want to be alone.
I slowly opened my eyes, drawing in a quivering breath of cold air. My eyes desperately stared into the dark.
I didn't want to be alone.
Anyone is fine.
Someone.
Just, anyone...
I licked my lips, brows furrowing.
I had to get up.
I had to see what was beyond that door.
Gritting through a sorrowful breath, I pushed myself onto my side, slapping my wounded hand against the ice cold wooden planks. Tears welled in my eyes as I pushed myself onto my knees, curling my bruised stomach.
A brief sob slipped through which I desperately tried to suppress.
Now isn't the time to cry.
Not yet...
Silent tears ran down my cheeks as I slowly began to stand up, my body shivering unsteadily.
I gulped down breaths of frozen air once I was on my feet, staring at the swirling floor, dizzy.
Another flash of lightning lit up the room accompanied by a crack of thunder.
I continued to stand there, praying that the swirling would stop.
One breath...
Two breath...
The floor continued to dance, but its movements seemed to slow.
Three breath...
Finally the floor seemed to settle. I wiped my cheeks with the collar of my stained shirt, carefully turning myself to face the door.
As embarrassing as it sounded, the journey forth required baby steps.
And patience...
So, so much patience...
I took a small step forward and hurriedly made myself frigid, wobbling precariously in place.
I really, really wanted to cry. I had never in my thirty four years of life been this weak, this injured. I didn't know how to cope. I only knew I had to go forward.
I took a second small step, this time drawing out the motion, my focus purely on my gait.
Three step.
Four Step.
A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I inched closer to the door.
Finally, with one large stumble, I grabbed onto the door; desperately using it as a temporary crutch.
I gazed out into the dark, catching the outline of what seemed to be a living room. A large couch was pressed up against the sill of a shutter-bound window. Atop the furniture laid a man, one foot draped over an armrest with the other leg resting on a woven rug. A bottle of some kind was pressed up against his chest.
The strange man seemed to be asleep.
I sighed in relief, my racing heart starting to settle down a fraction.
Even if this man was my captor, at least I wasn't alone...
I slid an arm across the door as I stepped beyond the bedroom door. I leaned myself against the nearest wall and inched myself closer, staring intently on the man asleep on the couch.
In front of the couch was a coffee table trashed with empty bottles and what looked to be a pizza box. Bottles were strewn onto the floor around it, along with one particular half-broken bottle.
I furrowed my brows in question.
Where was the other half?
All of a sudden the shrill cry of a police siren pierced the silence, flashing lights stabbing through the slits in the shutters, lighting up the room in red and blue hues.
With that, I was able to get a better view of the strange man on the couch.
His wrinkled eyes were shut, a curl of dark brown hair draped across an eyelid. His face was slightly shaven, a semi-beard beginning to form. He was dressed in a green turtle neck sweater and a pair of worn down jeans, a belt missing from his waist. Large, mud laced boots covered his feet. Within his hand was a brown glass bottle of Hardie's Liquor pressed up against his chest.
Hardie's... Where had I seen that name before?
I racked my brain for an answer but nothing came to mind. That conclusion did nothing to get rid of the odd sense of familiarity I had with the name.
I knew this name. I had seen it before.
Somewhere.
Where?
As I wondered to myself, I continued to move, only stopping when my shoulder bumped into a switch on the wall. I nudged my shoulder, turning on the light. In a sputtering flicker, the room was dimly lit by a warm yellow hue.
My eyes focused back onto the half broken bottle found on the rug. For some reason this bottle felt like a clue. A clue that would help to unravel what happened before I took over this body.
I glanced down at my spread out hands, back against the wall. I studied the gash in my right hand, following the dried stream of blood that had trickled down onto my elbow. I couldn't help but notice tiny shards of glass buried in the wound. Carefully, with my other hand, I grasped a shard and held it up in the air.
I looked back to the broken bottle on the rug.
Despite being covered in blood, the material was the same.
So, this is what injured my hand.
How?
I turned around, turning my back to the man on the couch, facing a pitch black kitchen.
I slowly walked along the wall only stopping to flick on another light switch.
With that, I found another clue. Within a puddle of dried blood, shards of glass spread out in the middle of the front door. Leading away from the puddle were drops that lead to the living room; an odd, vague smear ending the trail.
The room smelled heavily of bleach and dish soap, the perpetrator of which was a bucket found on the floor nestled against the kitchen island.
Atop said island was a picture frame on its face, obscuring the photo placed within.
I lurched myself forward, grasping the edge of the kitchen island heavily. I huffed through the pain, picking up the picture frame.
Smiling back at me was a gorgeous blonde woman with silver eyes. She was dressed in a beautiful orange dress, holding a dug up flower in her thin hands, staining her lap with soil.
A piercing migraine wracked its way through my head. I dropped the picture frame and groaned, bending over the island, holding my head in my hands.
I knew her.
She was the mother of Ezra Beckett, a child that had been murdered. She was also the wife of the deadbeat scum who had murdered him.
And that deadbeat scum was right behind me...
I struggled to breathe through the pain, tears streaming down my face once more.
That means...
The body I was in...
I whimpered pathetically.
This didn't make sense.
None of it did.
I was inside the world of a comic book.
Not only that, but I was at the point in time in which Ezra had died.
The state of my body proved that.
Then... how is it that I am alive? Why did I take over his body?
What was the meaning behind all of this?
It's not like I could've come to save the world, the world inside the comic book had long been saved by the Hero and their daughter.
And it's not like Ezra held any significance to the plot--other then providing the Hero a moment of self-reflection when it comes to family after his tragic death.
So what was the point?
To live Ezra's life for him?
To avenge his death?
To suffer in his place?
Along with this revelation and existential crisis was a slithering wave of emotions that bled into me, jumbling up my thoughts and flooding my brain with memories that weren't mine.
Melodious laughter, warm embraces, sorrow, regret, confusion, love, hate, fear, and so much more rushed into my mind.
By the end of this chaotic battle of emotions, I was left crumpled onto the floor, having knocked over the bucket of chemicals. My pants were drenched, sweat dripping down my forehead. My breath raced, as if having run a marathon.
I turned back to face the man on the couch, wondering if he had noticed.
He hadn't.
He didn't notice.
Why hadn't he noticed?
Why does he never notice me?
Look at me.
LOOK AT ME!
I slapped my mouth shut with my hands in panic, almost having blurt that last thought aloud.
I sat in confusion, my gaze glued to his face. A rush of love, of longing, lingered for a moment until a sorrowful sadness remained.
Why did he do this to me?
I tried so hard to be a good boy...