CELL

/ TWENTY /

Our senses tell us where we are. How and who and, even, when.

Their absence renders us non entities. We flail around if only one or two are stolen. There are those who seize this new version of themselves and excel but, otherwise, we are merely remnants of our former selves.

Ryan, if one or two of his senses were removed, would undoubtedly flail.

Given he was without his sight and his hearing, those he deemed most important, he felt helpless. Given he couldn't smell anything, even when he raised his hand to his nose and sniffed it, he felt as if he had been mortally wounded. He thought about sucking on his finger – or perhaps his thumb – to check if taste still worked, but decided not to. He couldn't cope with losing another.

He was sitting on something soft. A mattress. Bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, he rolled onto his side.

There should have been the sound of his movement. The rustling of his clothes. The soft hiss of his breathing between the pitiful whimpers he was sure he was doing.

Where was he? What had happened to him? Why couldn't he remember anything about anything?

He began to cry, feeling more helpless than he had at any other time in his life – probably. He could feel his blubbering jarring in his chest, which was a strange comfort to him. He'd felt the mattress and his legs, but it was the gasping sobs that proved touch had yet to abandon him.

Eventually, his snivels diminished. He tried to remember something from his past, but that, along with his present, was in hiding. The darkness smothering everything around him extended inwards, cloaking all his memories. He was... what was he? Empty? Full of nothing? Both?

He sniffed back the snot running from his nose, jealous of the tears weeping from his eyes. And...

He sniffed again, harder and, hence, louder. Was...? Again, he inhaled sharply through his nose, dragging the sound out, because there was sound! It was only slight, and at first, he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't just his imagination. He coughed. Spoke. And heard! A little louder and a little louder still.

Ryan sat up, listening as his trousers moved against his legs and brushed against the mattress. The sounds made him smile weakly as, though they were coming through at what he assumed was a normal volume, it was only sound. He still couldn't see. Taste? Had that returned?

He licked his lips. Yes, he could, barely. He inserted his finger into his mouth and quickly took it out. It tasted coppery., like... oh, what was it... blood? Was that the taste? Why the hell would there be blood on his finger? Gingerly, he extended his tongue and ran it over his palm.

Ugh!

His hand wasn't covered, but there was definitely an amount of blood on it. He didn't feel hurt, so it was unlikely to be his. Whose then?

Erm...

Blood...

Blood...?

BLOOD!

Ryan instinctively grabbed at his neck, desperate to stem the liquid spewing from the gash in his throat.

Except there was none. His neck was intact, with nothing to suggest there'd been a wound at all. He remembered, though! Being held by the twins. The doctor, Bradley, playing with him and then that woman. The assistant. What was her name? Oh, whatever. Bradley was asking something and, when she didn't get the desired answer, she...

Was there really nothing at his neck? He couldn't feel anything except smooth, ungashed skin.

Was he imaging it? Dreaming? Was being blinded playing with his mind? If she had done what he thought he remembered she had, how could he even be...