It began with the unforettable a flash stream of smoke; and the insesant screaming of sirens blaring in the distance outside the cool grey walls and rock malformations. The roar of tires obscured by the screeching of alarm bells and rhythmic patterns of deep red light illuminating the cold monstrosity they stood all stood in. He was covered head to foot in deep trenches of sweat and evaporating mist, half bent and buckled pipes billowing thick steam into the unnaturally cool place. The churn and clunk of pistons only added to the deafening noise as they pumped relentlessly into the metal door, larger than three men combined, glowing a strong purple light, twisting and fighting with the red light slamming against it. The nuts and bolts buckled under the strain as one by one the individual pistons broke hard off the wall, spraying screws with tremendous force against every object they bounded off of, before hitting the rocky floor with an audible clunk. The strong odor of gas filled his nose, ached his eyes and quickly began to blur his fading vision. His vision and everything it encompassed grew white, with a faint trace of a disdained yellow, a mass of indistinct and indiscribable colour shrinking into nothing. The last thing he could pick up on was the faint whiff of sea air and market stalls, one selling fish, one he recognised to be salmon.

Then there was nothing.

But, wait, was there nothing echoing in his mind and against his tender flesh.

Something long and thin brushed against his forehead, his skull contorting as it felt as if it were pressed against something hard, but strangely would somehow bend to his force if he tried.

No, no, this couldn’t possibly be death, if this was death surely he would be certain about it. If he was dead, he couldnt be considering it. It was an uneasy thought, but they only one he had.

No, he decided. This was not what death felt like. He’d taken paracetamol only this afternoon, and this morning for that matter. If this was death, why was his head throbbing and his cheeks flushed once warm, beaded with sweat.

No, if he indeed was dead, then why did he have the symptoms of a cold? There was no form of afterlife were he would ever have a cold.

God, or gods, they wouldn’t want a cold, nor the devil for that matter.

No they just wouldn’t have it, if he were to die, he would be in purgatory until he got over his cold, no superpowered being would want to feel like he did.

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Not that he believed in it himself, religion and all, he was merely reassuring himself in the only way he could think of. It was flawed logic, and he knew that, nowhere in his scramble for rational thought did it make sense, but at least it gave him hope.

summoning all the force he had he looked up. He regretted this almost immediately however, as his head knocked hard against the bark of a seemingly old moss covered tree.

A trickle ran down his face, a loose twig jutting out from the tree had grazed his face causing a drop of blood to fall from his forehead down to his cheeks.

He had failed, he knew that for certain, but he wasn't quite sure what. His emotion seemed to fill his chest, returing to them as quickly as they had felt as if they had left.

"why" he murmured, in an angered whisper, his teeth clenched tightly. In tune with his voice his fist slammed against the ground ir-rhythmically from his feet.This was the worst day he screamed to himself inside his head; and it was his fault.

To him, from what he could recall, this was worst day in the history of bad days in the entirety of the history of the known world and universe. No one in any time period had ever had a worse day than he had today, this again, was his emotion talking, but he was in too much of a fit to realise.

First his shoes disappeared, then his cold manifested in his body then the steam had burnt over his clothing and body and now he’d grazed his head. He felt as if he could scream, but the clogging in his throat seemed to stop him.

Wait.

He stopped suddenly, pressing his palm into the ground.

It was soft, moulding itself around his stained fingertips in fact.

Grass? Grass!?

Why was there grass.

He raised his head sharply once more, again, immediately regretted it, the top of his cranium grazing this time.

There was a tree too, its branches pointing down at him in jest mockery.

He propped himself up on his elbows, a whirring in his disoriented ears, the blow of wind and the hawking of owls muffled.

The sky illuminated by an array of brightly lit stars, like a multitude of tiny light bulbs staring down at him. Somehow from the ashen walls he was once in, he found himself slumped against the base of an old oak, stars breathing down on him through the leaves amidst the branches,

He winced, his back hurt with the worst pain he had ever known, running his fingers down his back he felt them. Three long, very deep gashes pressed against his hand, it felt agonising, torn flesh ripping against his sweaty palm.

The arched strain on his back caused him to shuffle in three large jumps and kicks against the ground pushing him towards the tree.

He rested his head and back against the tree, mildly more comfortable now, his head bouncing slightly against the moss. He breathed in deeply, his eyes growing heavier by the minute. The world grew quieter around him, at least that’s what it seemed to be to him. Everything in his head turned to dusk, dark clouds flitted around his vision, transpiring even into his own head. Even his own pain seemed to fade as something warm poured out from his wounds.