Page 51 of Dark Witch Resurrection

39

THE PRINCE

His mind drifted aimlessly among fragments of hazy memories of mostly sounds, clouded visuals, smells, and tactile senses.

Fabrics.

For some reason, he had the impression of how different fabrics felt against his skin. But those were memories.

He felt nothing now.

He knew he was male, so there was at least that, but he didn't know his name or what he looked like. Had he never seen his own reflection?

There was no sense of time, no concept of how long he had been floating in this confusing void or why.

Maybe this was death?

This could be what being dead felt like.

After all, he had no sensation of having a body or being inside a physical shell. As far as he knew, he could be just a floating consciousness.

But why was he conscious if he didn't have a purpose? Wasn't the soul supposed to end up somewhere special according to its merits?

And there was that sound again. A female voice that was somehow whole and clear among the haze of his fragmented thoughts and distorted memories of sensations. He could not understand what she was saying, so that was aligned with the rest of his confusion, but the sound was so clear, as if she was right there beside him, talking to him, singing to him.

Was the sound a lifeline or a beacon he was supposed to follow to find his place in the afterlife?

No, it couldn't be the afterlife because if he were dead, the sound wouldn't evoke such longing in him. He wanted to see the female's face, knowing that she would be beautiful, to feel the touch of her hand, knowing it would be soft and gentle.

Clinging to the sound, he followed it, his consciousness clinging to the tether…

If he could open his eyes…

If he only had eyes…

He should concentrate on remembering what it felt like to have them—having eyelids, closing them, opening them, moving his head from side to side.

A sense of apprehension assailed him every time he thought about anyone seeing his eyes. There was an instinctive need to cover them so no one would see them.

Why?

What was wrong with them?

And why was the sound gone?

He needed the female's voice so he could follow it. Where had she gone?

Had something happened to her?

The sudden flash of fear and anger was like a bolt of energy, like a lightning strike that animated the body that he was becoming aware of, not enough to move anything but perhaps enough to lift his eyelids and look at the world he was in without reaching for a veil.

Dangerous. It was so dangerous. But he was tired of living in fear.

Commanding the shutters on his eyes to lift was at first futile, but he was not ready to give up. With a monumental effort, he forced the movement and almost lost consciousness just from the exertion of that slight action.

Then it dawned on him. He was conscious.

The view that greeted him was alien and terrifying. He hated small, confined spaces, and this chamber was small and devoid of color. White walls, various equipment, and all kinds of tubes and wires were attached to him.

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