Chapitre 1: A Cabin in the Woods
[41, Before]
As I heaved my last, living breath, I realised my life had already flashed before my eyes.
A damn shame: by that point, it was already too late to appreciate it happening.
All I could focus on was the pain. Lying on the ground. Clutching my tightening chest as my breath left my lungs. Head spinning. Arm numbing. Sight fading. Sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss.
You know, they always say it's cold in the movies. It's the last thing spoken before someone valiantly fades off. 'Captain, I'm cold,' they whisper. 'I'm so cold.'
Christ. What a cliche.
And, damn do I hate to admit it... but, in the end, it was cold.
O' how the darkness crept in. My last sight: an ever-blurring mosaic of people - their nameless faces twisted in panic - huddled around, standing over me in a herd of brewing anxiety.
Well, I thought, panic fading. It looks like I'm dying.
.
.
.
In death, there was darkness.
And in the darkness, there was cold.
And the cold wrought nothingness.
And within that nothingness, only fear remained.
.
.
I floated alone, formless in the void. Time rendered stagnant.
Minutes. Hours. Days. Eons. They became meaningless. My thoughts were scattered and distant. The only sense of familiarity was the brewing fear building in the void.
Then, my incorporeal chest tightened.
The place where I imagined my stomach was began to ache. The pain grew. A crescendo of agony, built up into white-hot suffering.
Death's cold embrace melted quickly under this blinding heat. Like a soldering iron pressed up against skin.
I tried to scream. Nothing came.
The burning intensified in my throat.
God, I thought. The pain!
Around me the void greyed as a subtle light, a dull glow, began to pierce the nothingness. My ethereal frame seemed to harden.
Is this my… Body?
Through the pain and heat, I could feel something deeper. A beat. Bump. Bump... Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
I closed my forming eyes and as the overwhelming pain took over. The scalding heat gathered in my gut, rising steadily into my chest and lungs and then into my throat and then…
Out of my mouth.
My eyes shot open.
Blood and sick stained a wooden floor beneath me. I was buckled over. Body writhing in pain. I vomited again. More blood, more stomach acid. It poured out, pooling below me. My eyes stung with tears.
God… What a way to wake up.
When the vomiting finally stopped, I threw myself backwards away from the steaming puddle. My body still ached, but the intense burning had died down. I leaned up against a wall behind me, catching my breath.
So, I didn't die.
My vision, blurred by tears and spinning with anxiety, began to sharpen. As it did, I let out a raspy gasp.
The room wasn't one I had ever seen before. Plain, oaken floorboards ran neatly from one end to the other, walled in by cladding of the same material and design. On my left, a glassless window let in enough light to wash the room in a warm glow. On my right, a plain, wooden door. Across from me and past the puddle of sick, a hemp-mattress, the exact width of the room, lay on the floor. A round bedside table bore a melted candle and above the mattress hung a wooden canopy adorned with books. Budding roots pierced through the floorboards.
And next to the pile of vomit, a handful of pills lay strewn.
Where…
"Where am I?" I asked aloud.
The sound of my voice made me cold.
Who… What?
The tone was young. Vibrant. Bright. Gone was my grizzled, smoker's timbre.
My hands shot up to my face. No crevices. No wrinkles. No stubble. It was smooth beneath my touch.
I looked down.
My legs were now stick thin, at least in comparison to my old thunder thighs. My bulging pouch of a stomach was gone, replaced now by a flat, ribcage-showing frame. I lifted up the scratchy hemp shorts I was wearing.
Still a man.
I frowned.
A boy, I suppose.
My shoulders dropped and I let out a loud sigh.
Maybe this is some kind of resort, I wondered. For people struggling with substance abuse. Maybe I didn't die, after all. Maybe it was just shock and I was picked up and carted out for my own good. I must have been out for a while then to have lost this much weight...
My face twisted into a rueful smile.
No. I didn't have the money or importance to warrant help like that. I died. The pain was too real… The cold was too real. The darkness...
"So," I said out loud, slightly cringing at the pitch of my voice. "Where am I, then?"
.
.
.
Going straight out the door, I reasoned, wouldn't be the best first course of action. What laid beyond was far too unknown. Couldn't risk it.
Somehow, someway, I was alive again. Placed in the body of a young man. Couldn't be older than sixteen.
I had to take stock as best I could of the situation.
Best case scenario: this was another shot at life. Worst case: this was a vivid fever dream, or even hell.
Taking it carefully and assuming the best case scenario would only benefit the situation, I decided. Acting as if this were just a dream would be a problem if it turned out otherwise.
Still, despite my uneasiness there was one thing I knew for certain: I needed to act fast. The room was beginning to soak in the pungent smell of vomit.
With great effort, I pushed myself up to standing. My legs wobbled like a baby gazelle taking its first steps. Hobbling, I made my way to the window and pressed my back against the wall. Sweat poured from my forehead. Heavy breathing filled the silence. I was weak. Very weak.
I leaned and peeked out the window. A forest. Thick, corded trunks reached high into the sky, their leafy peaks allowed piercing rays of sun to light the forest floor.
"Where the hell am I?"
And why is it so quiet?
Aside from the gentle rustling of trees, the silent forest seemed devoid of life. I turned back to the room and my eyes glazed once more over the pool of vomit. Blood and bile and, I could see now, small pools of something thick and black. Like tar.
Strange.
I glanced at the pills lying on the floor beside it.
Did this body try and commit suicide using these pills? Why?
Then, my gaze travelled over to the bed. The mattress was rotting away. Mould eating at the edges. Above, bunched cobwebs, thick and spotted with flies, were burrowed into the corners of the room. I saw dark movement beneath the white webbing and shivered.
I hate spiders.
Suddenly, a sound from outside sent ice-cold chills through my body.
Voices.
Leaves crunching underfoot.
I stepped over to the window, back again pressed against the wall. Taking a deep breath, I slowly and cautiously poked my head out.
Not cautious enough. One woman. One man. She wore rags and he wore what looked like a black, martial artist's gi. A wooden baton was strapped to his belt.
They pointed, shouted, looked at one another and bolted towards the house. I ran to the door, my foot plunging into the pooled vomit, and fumbled at the knob. No lock. I held the knob tight, but my hands shook.
The voices now, clear and distinct, sounded from right outside the door. They were shouting.
I stepped away and into the corner of the room I crouched, eyes on the door. The world spun. My throat clenched. Cold sweat beaded over my brow. Was this it for my second chance?
The window, my mind screamed. I can jump out.
I threw myself to my feet. Not enough time. I hesitated too much. The door swung open. The pair came in, yelling in their strange tongue.
"Wait!" I cried. "Wait, wait, wait! Please."
Their shouting quieted and they looked at each other with cocked heads.
"Please, please! Don't hurt me. Christ… Uh, English," I said, stammering. "Do you speak English?"
They looked at me with furrowed brows and stepped forward, murmuring in their language.
I backed away, arm extended to keep them distant. They continued to speak and as they did, I felt a sharp pain brewing in my skull.
"Damn," I cursed, as I began to sway.
The woman stepped forward, hastily rattling off something unintelligible. But… Somehow the words felt… Familiar this time.
She spoke again. The pain in my head intensified. I became dizzy. Nauseous.
The man stepped forward and barked something at the woman.
"Stay… Stay away," I murmured. My vision began to darken and the pain in my head reached its climactic peak. I must have fallen because the last thing I felt was my cheek slapping hard against the wooden floor.
"He's gone nuts," I heard as I faded away. "C'mon, drag this shit back to the Lord's manor."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone