The man’s eyes shot open, the same as they had always done every time he awoke from slumbering in his bed. Something was wrong. Something was incredibly wrong. Immediately he knew from the moment his brain could perceive anything. His chest swelled up with a tingling, numbing feeling, and he felt a pit in his stomach. His mind attempted to work, but all that resulted was static. The man let out a sharp gasp as he sprung upwards into a sitting position, simultaneously ripping the blankets from off of his body with a force that removed them completely from the bed, and with a swinging motion put his legs over the side and pushed himself onto his feet. In just one smooth motion he felt it—the pain. This pain was unfortunately not just in his chest and inside of his mind, no, now there was a third kind of pain. A physical, agonizing pain emanating from his right lower extremity. His foot felt as though it had been smashed as he fell to the floor, unable to hold his weight.
A terrible noise replaced the air in the room. The pain. Involuntary screaming bellowed from the man’s lungs, as he quickly grabbed hold of his foot, his body wanting to console itself. He wished he hadn’t done so, as the pain grew when he squeezed. Another agonizing scream escaped. Letting go, it’s almost as if his mind had been reset. His brain chose to think clearly, yet his vision was wobbled by the water welling in his eyes. Disregarding the sharp, lingering twinge, the man scanned his surroundings, at a loss for words. Though his world was at bent ninety degrees he made out some details against the dim and bright orange flicker against dark brown walls. He was in a small wooden room, the walls giving him a small glimmer of—something. They reminded him of the Lincoln Logs he would play with as a small kid. In between the logs were stuffings of mud and moss that were of a dark drab brown. Turning his head, he became blinded by the fire that burst and cracked in the stone hearth. The flames were parted by a large cauldron hanging at the peak of the heat. He suddenly averted, not wanting any more damage to be done to his senses, but every other sense replaced his sight. His touch and smell rose through. Within a short window of time, he relaxed, noticing that his body didn’t feel cold, most likely because of the fire. His nose caught a scent, a homely scent of food cooking.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
On the opposite side of the bed from where he was, there was a small wooden table accompanied by two chairs. Following the wall to the other side of the room there was an elegant dresser, as well as a tall bookshelf beside it. In the corner, an old well pump sat. This was odd. A well pump inside of a house? The floor planks arose around the base of it as though the pump were the mouth of a volcano. In the wall across the room was a door frame with no door, a giant black hole in this light. Breathing heavily, he let his head drop to the floor. That would take his mind off of this situation, the pain of his head hitting the floor distracting him from the pain in his foot.
Maybe if I hit my head hard enough I’ll wake up from this nightmare, he contemplated with himself. He knew he shouldn’t have climbed that mountain alone. He knew better, but no, his buddy at the last minute just had to go to their best friend’s wedding. ‘Maybe some other time,’ the sentence in his friend’s voice came up in his head. Why didn’t he listen to himself and not go? He had heard the stories of people dying on Mount Everest, the Donner Party... how could he have been that stupid? He knew he was at risk of running out of supplies, he knew that he would be stubborn and not pack as many layers as he needed to, and what happened? He had to be rescued, that’s what happened. A deep sigh exhumed, still feeling the unwanted uncomfort in his leg.
A sound became noticeable. Wind came in waves outside as if he were on a boat in the ocean. This house might as well have been a boat lost at sea for all he cared. Snow was made of water, after all. The house was made of wood. His own little ship moving aimlessly in the undulating waves—the room, a vessel drifting along in the snow. The thought brought him slightly at ease. He had always drempt of being a pirate when he was little; now he was first mate, and the owner of the cabin was the captain, who had graciously paid him for his voyage not with silver, but with compassion, selflessness, and kindness.
Creak creak. The sound of the floor boards showed themselves in another room, coming from the hole in the wall. Raising his head, he looked and saw a thin silhouetted figure standing past the doorway, a look of concern on its face. A look of horror was plastered onto the human’s.