Shadows - Prologue

PROLOGUE

My eyes are open.

I think.

If they are open, then everything looks grey. A dark grey.

Not a grey with promise, like the early dawn. This is a grim and foreboding grey. This is like the grey mist of fever and delirium, the grey of despair.

I cannot see beyond the grey.

I think I have been asleep and I think I’m now awake.

I think.

I hear voices to my left. Quiet murmurs that I cannot decipher. Human voices. I try to turn my head.

Nothing happens.

My mind commands but my neck remains still. The muscles do not answer. The nerves are silent.

The grey covers my eyes. I can see nothing but the grey.

I try to turn my head to the right, this time.

Same result.

I reach up to touch my neck and I feel my arm respond. My right arm.

At least, it tries to.

My arm does not move. I can feel the muscles trying, and failing. At least, I’m not dreaming that I have an arm. I can feel the muscles flex.

I try again.

My arm muscles answer the call again and I strain to reach up to my neck.

My arm moves a fraction this time, and then no more. I realise soon that my arm hasn’t really moved. It’s just some of my fingers that have.

The left arm fares no better.

It’s just the fingers on each hand I find I can move. I seem to remember having read somewhere that being able to move your fingers means you’re not paralysed.

I can’t look at my hands.

Do I have my fingers?

I’m breathing harder now and feel my heart start to beat faster. A nameless fear begins to gnaw at me. I can still see nothing more than grey.

My brain has been screaming orders at my legs, which are likewise dumb. I can move both my big toes, though.

At least, it feels like I’m moving my big toes.

Do I have big toes?

Do I have legs?

I can’t tell. I can’t look to see.  

Am I paralysed?

Am I dreaming? Maybe this grey mist is because I’m in a dream.

Maybe it’s a nightmare.

Maybe I’m under restraints.

I cannot tell because I cannot see.

My brain has now abandoned all attempts to get my body to move and seethes instead with thoughts.

Where am I? What has happened to me?

I try to focus and remember.

What’s my name?

Matthew.

Or is it Thomas?

Phillip? Andrew? Peter?

I somehow know it’s one of the twelve Apostles.

I don’t know why I think that, and I’m not sure which one.

I’m not sure of my name.

Not good.

Not good at all.