𝑨𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑽𝒀𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑴. She jerked awake, stiff as her back stuck to the floor, and felt nothing. The air was damp, suffocating as it fell into her chest and clenched her throat tight shut. Nothing; it was empty and dry, hollow as it sunk underneath her skin. She tried to swallow, to breathe, to blink. Nothing. But she could familiarise uncomfortableness — and taste something. The tinge of metal. Blood.
She inhaled sharply. Like a switch had been flicked, movement and feeling flooded her. Pain, stiffness. Her limbs felt heavy like lead, relying only on the ground to support them. The ground. The ground was wrong. It wasn't flat, it was gridded; and cool, icy against her skin.
Strangled coughs pulled her up, ripping her back from the floor like a plaster. Medicinal, sticky substance spattered onto the floor, pouring thinly from her lips as it emptied from her lungs. She groaned as her head throbbed, slumping back against the uncomfortable floor. She dragged a hand across her mouth and winced as the stickiness clung to it.
It hit her. Flew, like cold air, colliding harshly with the back of her head. Information shafted its way through her chest, through her head, settling in every fibre that held her body together. It was as if she were train tracks — and a train was rushing past, flying through her. She could remember.
The taste of familiarity was bittersweet. She remembered small, unnecessary things: a sticky slice of pizza, the thud of music hanging over a dark room. Children in a classroom, cars and buses and bikes clogging up roads, rivers and mountains and oceans. It was overwhelming, made her dizzy and sick.
But it wasn't what she needed. She tried, desperately, to wrack her mind for anything else — something she could hold onto — but it was hopeless. All she could see was dark, an empty space in the back of her head where her memories should've been. And it was painful — achy to try and remember. Better to leave it forgotten.
Frustrated, she pulled herself up, elbows digging into the floor. She dragged her arm a few inches and winced as gridded metal pushed against her skin. Hissing, she jerked her elbow upwards and ran her fingers over the cloth of her shirt. The sting of tearing flesh tingled through the material. She shuddered, hand dropping onto her lap as she shifted.
Her eyes were open, she was sure of it. But all she could see was dark, still. Not even a shadow peeling away from the surface could tell her where she was. She was submerged, deep in black pitchy tar. And there was an odd scent; like antiseptic and rusted metal and damp, stale air.
