Page 1 of Lost Petal

Prologue

Petal

Is this what it feels like to be born?

Why do we not remember an event of such significance? Our first moment on Earth, our first breath, the first thing we see, the first thing we feel, the first thing we hear.

Our first thought.

None of it stays with us.

It happens to all of us, and we all bear the same pain of not remembering, bereft of that one moment in our short frame of existence when we are nothing and no one. Untainted and raw. Void of any mistakes, burden, and prejudice.

We come into the world with nothing but the skin that protects us from it, with a set of lungs that lets us breathe through it, a set of eyes that lets us see it, ears that let us perceive its music—and a head that helps us make sense of it.

But what if you break along the way?

What if your system gets reset?

Is that what’s happened to me?

Is that why I’m here?

Is that why I don’t dare to open my eyes?

I’ve been awake for a while now, but I lack the courage to act on it. My head is as heavy as my limbs, resting on a surface that is foreign to me. It’s neither soft nor hard, but combines both qualities in one strange blend.

I’m lying on my back, with my arms falling off to the sides while my legs stretch across the length of the bench. My arms are bent in an awkward position as they leap over the edges, causing my fingers to prickle when I move them, closing and opening my fists while they hold on to nothing but thin air.

My eyes remain shut while my other senses slowly wake, one after another.

The first thing I notice is the smell. It’s not a particularly bad smell. There’s no unpleasant stench infiltrating my senses, nothing that reeks of decay or mold. Nothing that would cause a person to crinkle their nose as they try to find a name for the unwanted aroma that is invading their space. It’s nothing of the sort.

But it isn’t good either.

It’s the kind of neutral in-between that’s impossible to grasp, like the air between my fingers. If someone would ask me what this room smells like, I would feel inclined to reply with: “Nothing.”

Am I even inside a room? My vision is obscured by just my eyelids. Yet there’s nothing but complete blackness, suggesting that I’m surrounded by darkness.

The sound of my breath is not joined by the soft whistle of wind traveling through trees in my vicinity, no voices in the distance, no feral chatter, not the slightest hint of traffic noises near or far. No breeze caresses my skin as my limbs gradually wake from their slumber, and no sunlight warms my stiff body as I loll ever so slightly, the motions traveling from the tips of my fingers and toes up to my core, as if I were making sure that I’m still there, that I’m still complete.

And then, at last, I dare to take that final step back into the world.

I open my eyes.

And I see... nothing.

Just as I suspected, there’s no illumination helping me to find my bearings. Eyes open or not, it doesn’t make a difference; the impression remains the same. Nothing but black emptiness greets me. The only conclusion I can draw is that I am, in fact, inside a room. A room without windows.

A basement, maybe?

I want to speak, but while my lips are ready to form the words, my voice is not. I lie there, my mouth moving like that of a fish out of water, fighting for a life that slowly slips away. A croak escapes me, but it’s all I can muster. My throat hurts, feeling sore from God knows what.

Screaming? Did I scream?

Why?

I flinch when my confused pondering is interrupted by something unexpected.

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