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knifemonopolyHe doesn't know what's happened to him.
Everything is -- so much. So loud. Every smell and sound, and there are so many, and all different, feels like a needle -- and his brain is the pincushion. He'd cover his ears, his nose, except his body's all wrong --
(what was his body supposed to look like, anyway? he doesn't know. can't pinpoint it. but he knows his front limbs aren't meant to be so stiff, like clubs, and he's pretty sure being bent over on his belly like this is wrong, too, but he can't stand up, can't even sit)
-- and all he can do is scratch at his own snout and jaw and skull with blunt nails, feeling bits of caked mud (is it mud? smells metallic.) come off on his rough, clublike hands.
The moon is overhead. It's the only thing in this maelstrom of a world that feels cool and calm, but the leaves of the tree he's taken shelter under break it up, block it, hide it. Their rustling in the light breeze sounds like a rockslide. Everything in this park -- the squeak of metal on metal as the wind catches the fence, the settling of the foundations of the nearby buildings, the distant rumble of a train -- all of it roars in his ears, which press back flat against his head. He feels himself whimper, a strange whining sound coming from high in the back of his throat, which turns into a panicked shout, a cry of raw confusion and fear --
-- only it comes out howled. It sounds scared, and lonely. He misses someone, but...he doesn't remember who.
He's disoriented. His body's all wrong. He doesn't know what happened, or how he got here. He's not hungry, and that's good, but it's the only thing that's good here. It, and what he can see of the moon.
Everything is -- so much. So loud. Every smell and sound, and there are so many, and all different, feels like a needle -- and his brain is the pincushion. He'd cover his ears, his nose, except his body's all wrong --
(what was his body supposed to look like, anyway? he doesn't know. can't pinpoint it. but he knows his front limbs aren't meant to be so stiff, like clubs, and he's pretty sure being bent over on his belly like this is wrong, too, but he can't stand up, can't even sit)
-- and all he can do is scratch at his own snout and jaw and skull with blunt nails, feeling bits of caked mud (is it mud? smells metallic.) come off on his rough, clublike hands.
The moon is overhead. It's the only thing in this maelstrom of a world that feels cool and calm, but the leaves of the tree he's taken shelter under break it up, block it, hide it. Their rustling in the light breeze sounds like a rockslide. Everything in this park -- the squeak of metal on metal as the wind catches the fence, the settling of the foundations of the nearby buildings, the distant rumble of a train -- all of it roars in his ears, which press back flat against his head. He feels himself whimper, a strange whining sound coming from high in the back of his throat, which turns into a panicked shout, a cry of raw confusion and fear --
-- only it comes out howled. It sounds scared, and lonely. He misses someone, but...he doesn't remember who.
He's disoriented. His body's all wrong. He doesn't know what happened, or how he got here. He's not hungry, and that's good, but it's the only thing that's good here. It, and what he can see of the moon.
