The continuation of the pain was the first indication that even unconsciousness would not protect him. A thick pounding ache through the core of his being. He was charred, scorched, not even a man, merely the ashes of one.
The pain surpassed conscience, or even sentience, and he lingered that way, time has no meaning in the face of oblivion. Suddenly, a cool drop, a rivulet of life seems to flow into him, one drip at a time.
At first, it only increases his pain, water irritating ravaged flesh, flesh that had already given up on life. Sullenly, his body seemed to accept it, drawing it in. He had time again, an eternity between each drop, an agony of waiting for the next.
He swallowed, instinctively, some animal part of his body activating once enough moisture had gathered in the base of his throat. Pain once again shoots through him, as flesh grinds against itself, like machinery without lubricant. Now he has a new milestone. It continues, yet a new variety of eternity for him to endure. The steady drip of water, the raspy burn of its swallowing. They were his existence, his everything.
Yet, with every drip, the agony decreases, and every swallow is easier than the last. His breathing grows less ragged, and the headache fades to a dull twinge.
If before he was the ash of a man, this narrator supposes, now he was the mud of one.
Eventually, somehow, the agony fades even enough for sleep, and even the steady drip of the water, is not able to claim him from sleep.
He does not dream.
The pain surpassed conscience, or even sentience, and he lingered that way, time has no meaning in the face of oblivion. Suddenly, a cool drop, a rivulet of life seems to flow into him, one drip at a time.
At first, it only increases his pain, water irritating ravaged flesh, flesh that had already given up on life. Sullenly, his body seemed to accept it, drawing it in. He had time again, an eternity between each drop, an agony of waiting for the next.
He swallowed, instinctively, some animal part of his body activating once enough moisture had gathered in the base of his throat. Pain once again shoots through him, as flesh grinds against itself, like machinery without lubricant. Now he has a new milestone. It continues, yet a new variety of eternity for him to endure. The steady drip of water, the raspy burn of its swallowing. They were his existence, his everything.
Yet, with every drip, the agony decreases, and every swallow is easier than the last. His breathing grows less ragged, and the headache fades to a dull twinge.
If before he was the ash of a man, this narrator supposes, now he was the mud of one.
Eventually, somehow, the agony fades even enough for sleep, and even the steady drip of the water, is not able to claim him from sleep.
He does not dream.
