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It was an odd sensation, waking up for the first time. He felt… dull, he decided, was the best word for it. A passenger disconnected from the rest of his own body. Any presence outside of him was washed out, leaving only a vague notion that there was any “outside” to begin with.
As he regained feeling within the rest of his body, however, there came an itch in the back of his mind that something was wrong, an itch that got stronger and stronger as awareness creeped back until his mind was alight with a blinding panic.
The washed-out effect faded from his senses, feeling coming back to his limbs slowly, and as it did, he became aware of a stinging all throughout him. It began to grow, the faint burning becoming more and more prominent, boiling under his skin and wracking his very soul.
By the time he first opened his eyes, his body was on fire.
He could feel liquid pouring from everywhere it could- his ears, his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his neck, everywhere. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, could only lie there as whatever was inside him expelled itself, feeling glacially frigid and infernally ablaze all at once.
His eyes bored into the paneled ceiling above him; wherever he was, only the emergency lights remained on. An odd halo encircled him, further obscuring his vision. He tried to lift his hand and succeeded in having it fall from where it was steepled on his chest. It came to a sudden stop as it thudded against an invisible boundary. The lights around him warbled at the disturbance.
He was sealed in.
His chest squeezed, trying to hyperventilate, but all it did was make him choke out more strange fluid through gritted teeth.
Finally, after lying in agony for God only knows how long, he gained strength enough to lift his arms and bang against the walls of his cage, weakly at first, but growing in strength the more pain and fear gripped him. He fought and fought with his constraint until the glass gave way under his fist, and he lurched off his pedestal and onto the cold tile floor.
His arms shook as they pushed him off the floor, more cold ooze pulsing out of him as he moved. He felt himself wretch on the heavy fluid in his lungs. To his horror, however, he found himself unable to fully rid himself of what was quickly flooding his mouth and burning at his tongue, his jaw sealed shut.
Choking on the substance, he desperately tried to wrench it open, sharp pain stinging through his face as whatever was keeping it closed tore into his flesh. He could feel it with burning clarity now, a sturdy thread running from his lower jaw and up into his nose.
A steady dribble came pouring onto the floor from between his teeth, an unnaturally crimson with flecks of metallic gold.
Fumbling blindly, his hands found a jagged shard of glass and shakily brought it up to his teeth, sawing at the thread keeping his mouth closed. Finally, the cord snapped, and his maw ached as it hinged open, letting him cough and sputter out the poison infesting his every crevice.
A long time was spent on the floor, his body heaving as the fluid that had sat thick in his veins made its agonizing exit through every available orifice. Eventually, though, the seemingly unending spillage began to ebb, the fire under his skin not entirely gone but dulled enough to feel his other senses return. Lucidity came in a slow drip, replacing the blinding agony and fear with confusion as he took in his surroundings.
Still shaking, he grabbed the side of the slab- was this a crate? -he had broken out of and shakily got to his feet to survey the room properly, regretting it quickly as his vision doubled and another wave of pain wracked his body, dry heaving at the feeling.
Gathering his senses, he managed to stand straight and get a proper look around the room.
What might usually be a conference hall had been cleared of any longer tables and chairs it might have once held. Below him, teal linoleum flooring was caked in red and gold, a putrefied stench hanging in the air. Dimly, he recognizes words written on a whiteboard on one of the walls, however that was not what caught his attention the most.
No, that honor went to the two other crates that sat beside his, both of which were occupied.
Two men laid motionless underneath the glass, both dressed in fine, black priest’s robes, and both still as the dead: no steady rise and fall of chests, no panicked thrashing like he’d done, no wide-eyed fear, no movement of any kind. For reasons only the heavens knew, his heart sank.
On stumbling feet, he approached the closer of the two cases. The man’s face was painted with the grave effigy of a skull, black and white smeared shakily on his wrinkled face. Glancing up, though the shadows obscured quite a bit, he saw the other man wore a similar paint, though the design was different- more streamlined and with cleaner lines.
He looked back down at the man lying in front of him. The black of his chasuble was cut through with wide strips of red down the center and on the edge of the long, flowing garment. Propped above his head sat a stark white Mitre with a simple design sewn in- an upside down cross with an incomplete circle over the intersecting lines, forming a “G” over the center.
He cocked his head at the symbol, staring at how the hat sat neatly above the closed eyes of the old man. His attention trailed down to his face, to how calm an expression he wore despite the grisly paint he wore. If one didn’t know better, they could be forgiven for thinking that he was only taking a midday nap.
For just a moment, he got the sensation of warm sunlight beaming on his face, of soft fragrances resting heavy in the air, of laughter deep enough to shake his chest.
Something strange stirred there beneath his ribs, something he didn’t have a name for.
Why did it feel familiar?
Why were tears forming at the corners of his eyes?
He tried to hold onto those feelings, to recall them any more clearly, but just as suddenly as they had come, they vanished, the scent of cold rot and mothballs flooding back into his senses.
Feeling overwhelmed all over again, he stumbled forward, blindly reaching out against the display case to balance himself. As his hand made contact with the glass, a dull pressure dug against his fingers. He looked down and felt the panic resurfacing as, for the first time, he realized that he himself was wearing similar finery to that of the two bodies in front of him.
The ornate black robes clung to his skin, heavy with the formaldehyde that had expelled itself from him mere moments before. Swirls of embroidery glinted in the low light in the chasuble. A stole hung over his neck, more of those inverted crosses stitched in gold running all the way down it. His hands were covered by black leather gloves, golden nails sewn onto the fingers.
His breathing was picking up again. It was too much now that he was aware of it: too heavy, too sticky, too wet, too close, just too much. He threw off the stole and tore at the thick chasuble, struggling against the soaked material. Eventually, he wrestled it over his head and threw it to the ground, making short work of the alb next, the gaudy, bright gold thing clinging to his form in all the worst ways.
Finally, he was left in nothing but a silk undershirt and pants, panting and shivering in the cold room as the adrenaline wore off. His body ached from the strain it had been put through. Not bothering to take off the gloves, he ran a shaking hand through his hair and tried to organize his thoughts.
He was in a sort of viewing room.
He had been one of the bodies on display.
He didn’t know where he was outside of that.
He didn’t know who he was.
That thought sent a jolt through him as it occurred to him. Who was he? Did he have a name? He couldn’t recall one. He couldn’t recall much of anything aside from vague sensations. He thought he might have heard a voice at some point. Something about a third… a third what? Whose voice was it?
“You’re in danger.”
He whirled around. Another voice. Not the same one, but familiar somehow. It sounded like it had come from right behind him, but when he looked, no one was there.
“Who-” he didn’t get much more out than that, suddenly reminding himself of the thread still lodged in his jaw and up his nostrils as they burned at the movement. His voice felt hoarse, like his throat had been rubbed over with sandpaper.
“Doesn’t matter now,” came another one, still sounding as if they were whispering in his ear. “You can’t stay here. They’ll find you if you do.”
He wanted to ask who “they” was, but he flinched at the idea of opening his mouth again. Instead, he stumbled away from the boxes and towards the nearest door. He pulled at the handle only to find it locked.
“Behind you,” yet another voice chimed, “the large double doors. They will lead you out. We will guide you.” Whoever it was faded out at the end, someone new continuing after. “Hurry, you don’t have long. They’ll know you’re awake once the power is back.”
No sooner had he been warned than the lights began to flicker back to life. Panic soared in his veins once more, propelling him forward through the double doors and into a dark hallway. He kept running, voices occasionally telling him which door to go through. He didn’t pay much attention to where specifically he was going, only that he needed to be out of this wretched place.
Soon, he found himself hurtling through what he vaguely registered to be a lobby and out a set of clear glass doors leading into a warm summer night. Just as he made it outside, light flooded through the building behind him.
He kept running. He didn’t care where he went, just so long as he was as far away from wherever this was as possible. Distantly, he registered the murmur of a crowd and the sound of instruments floating through the air. Somewhere behind him, growing fainter to his ears by the second, someone is singing.
“To the sound of the monstrance clock, air is cleansed, assemble flock. Black candles burn, all minds align.”