Lightproof

I have no idea where this is going - well, I do a little bit, but not much.

His watch had stopped.

The face was covered with blood, but he could see all three hands – minute, second and hour – in the small sections that weren’t obscured. Four seconds to three in the morning. He would have liked to have known the date, but the rain simply couldn’t wash the blood away. He would have wiped it clean, but his other arm was certainly broken – his forearm had gone completely numb and he could see the sliver of bone where it had broken his skin.

He shifted his weight and rolled onto his back, blinking as the rain fell into his eyes. Buildings rose up both above him and beneath his feet, at least from his viewpoint as he lay there on the street.

Everything was blurred to him, and his entre body ached. His head was pounding, and he could hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He knew his body, as amazing and different as it was, would still take a while to recover enough to move. An hour? Two? He wasn’t sure.

Something moved on the rooftops above him. Something that had been looking down at him retreated from view. Was that where he was before? He didn’t know.

 

Why did he hurt?

He didn’t know.

 

Why was he lying here in the rain to begin with?

He didn’t know.

 

What had happened to him? Where was he? What was on the rooftop? Why had his watch stopped?

He didn’t know.

 

Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower chimed. Once, twice, three times.

Who was he?

He didn’t know.

*

The clock struck five as he pushed himself into a sitting position, back leaning against the wall. It was still raining, heavier now. His clothes were soaked through, and he was cold. Pale and very cold.

He looked down at his arm. It wasn’t broken – what he assumed to be a shard of broken bone was actually the tip of a knife. It had pierced clean through his arm, the blood slowly drying onto the steel. He reached over to grab the hilt, and paused. The blade had – probably purposefully, he thought – stabbed through the middle of a tattoo. He did not recognise the symbol inked onto his skin, or at least the half of it he could see clearly; the knife had bisected it perfectly, so it was symmetrical.

He yanked the blade free, and hissed in pain, clutching his arm to his chest. The bleeding had started again, staining his sleeve red.

He had to get help. He reached into his pocket, only to quickly draw his hand back, covered in more blood. Tentatively he reached in again, and retrieved the metal shards that had stabbed the tips of his fingers – the remains of his phone, crushed in the fall. He threw it away – it was of no use to him now.

His other pocket was more of a success. His wallet gave him two things. Firstly, a plastic card, which was useless because he couldn’t remember how to use it. But the second thing was of more use.

A list. Names and addresses. Something he could actually use.

He pushed himself onto his feet, still using the wall as support. He took a few shaky steps, and then stood up straight. As he walked out of the alley, he took another look at the card, A few words stood out to him. Bank. Bornek – that was a city, he knew that from the addresses. Visa. But most importantly, his name.

His name was Sophus.

*

The End

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