Acclivity

"Dear Amnesia, 

"Palm full of pills, it makes my memories a blur. Do I want to remember or should I forget.

Lack of emotions, shortage of care, less love to spend. I can fumble amongst my twisted thoughts. The consequences do not frighten me."

_______________________________

My thoughts held no words, only an endless swirl of images, fragmented and detached, like a storm of broken memories whipping through the void of my mind. No sounds, no clarity—just a numbing haze. I barely registered the steady, mechanical hiss of the blood pressure machine tightening around my arm. It was cold, clinical, like the hand of death itself wrapping around my bicep, squeezing out whatever life remained.

I couldn’t open my eyes, and I didn’t want to. I clung to the warmth of the bed like it was the only barrier between me and the abyss. But I was trapped inside my own body, a prisoner. No scream could escape my throat, no movement could break my paralysis. The weight of existence pressed on me like an unbearable itch, the kind that burrowed deep beneath the skin where no hand could reach. My grief was a dull, constant ache—a wound that refused to close, festering, spreading. There was no ice cold enough to numb it.

A hand on my shoulder, squeezing gently. I flinched, trying to turn my head, but the effort was like dragging a corpse. My eyelids fluttered weakly, but I couldn’t pry them open. My body felt like it had been filled with lead, my fingers buried under the weight of stones.

"Almost," a voice whispered before retreating, his footsteps fading like echoes in an empty crypt.

"Almost isn’t good enough." Pin's voice cut through the silence like a shard of glass, sharp and cold, reverberating in the dark chamber of my mind.

"Coma?" The second voice was low, severe—Tbor, I assumed.

The silence that followed was deafening. It wasn't just quiet; it was oppressive, thick enough to suffocate. It crawled over my skin, tightening, compressing. I needed the weight to lift, to release me, but the air was thick, crushing, stealing the breath from my lungs.

"Drug overdose will do that," Pin's voice again, a snarl now, dripping with frustration. His steps were fast, urgent, as he left the room. As much as I wanted to break free from the prison of my own body, the thought of facing him—of facing the world again—was paralyzing. What was waiting for me out there? More pain? More death?

I tried to move, twitching weakly against the stiffness that bound me. My muscles protested as I shifted my head, my vision still locked in darkness. I squinted, struggling, my fingers brushing against the oxygen mask over my mouth. Every motion was agony. It felt like my body was sinking into the bed, merging with it, dissolving into nothingness.

I let out a soft moan, the sound barely more than a whisper, swallowed up by the room. Was it the overdose, or was it something deeper—the weight of everything I’d endured, everything I’d lost? Maybe both. Would I ever stand again? Would I ever escape this crushing grief?

My teeth ground together as I forced my eyes open, the lids heavy, reluctant. The room was dark, blurry shapes swimming before me, and blinking lights flickered from screens in the background, taunting me with their clarity. The effort to lift my hand was monumental, as if I had to summon every ounce of strength just to make the smallest motion. My fingers slipped against the mask, fumbling, failing. The plastic straps dug into my skin, but I couldn’t rip them off.

Sweat mingled with tears on my face, but I couldn’t feel them. It was as if my skin had become numb, the connection between my mind and body severed. I was breaking apart, piece by piece. Tbor’s hand wrapped around mine, pulling it gently away from my face, and I realized I had no strength left to resist.

Pin appeared, looming over me, his face a tight mask of tension, his jaw clenched as if he were barely holding something back. His eyes scanned mine, sharp, assessing, but there was no warmth there. Only cold calculation.

I tried to speak, to form words, but my mouth was dry, my throat raw. Tbor pressed my hands down against the bed, and I realized I had no control. No power. I was utterly at their mercy.

“Don’t say anything,” Tbor muttered, his voice low, detached. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from my face, but there was no tenderness in the gesture. Just necessity. He hadn’t come for me. He had come because it was his duty. Why was he even here?

I struggled to shake the fog from my mind, tried to force my body to respond, but it was no use. I was crumbling from the inside out, and they could see it. Their faces were cast in shadow, their expressions blank. Were they in shock? No. They didn’t care. They didn’t feel anything at all.

I fought to sit up, my legs twitching uselessly as I tried to maneuver myself into a better position. Pin and Tbor exchanged a glance, and with mechanical precision, they lifted me, straightening my body as if I were nothing more than a broken doll. I slumped immediately, my muscles giving out, and they laid me back down, their hands cold and impersonal.

"That was impressive," Pin muttered, but there was no humor in his voice, only bitterness.

Tbor's eyes darted to the door. "Someone’s here," he whispered.

Pin froze, his body tensing, and I felt a new kind of fear settle over the room, thick and suffocating. The sound of the elevator echoed through the hall, and Tbor swung my legs over the edge of the bed. They were in a rush now, urgency replacing their earlier detachment. Whoever was coming—it wasn’t good.

We moved quickly, my feet barely brushing the cold floor as they dragged me through the hall. I was trying to focus, trying to push past the haze, but the fear was like a weight on my chest. Pin bent down, his hands tying shoes onto my feet with rapid efficiency, but there was no kindness in his movements, only the need to survive.

The door slammed shut behind us, and we were in the stairwell, cold concrete and echoing steps surrounding us. Pin stayed behind, leaving me to Tbor.

"Sorry, Princess," Tbor huffed, shaking his head.

"I can climb," I whispered, but it was a lie. The steps loomed before me, an impossible task.

Tbor hesitated, his grip tightening around my torso as if he knew better. But I forced my legs to move, each step a monumental struggle. The weight on my body was crushing, and every muscle screamed in protest. I was hollow, emptied, and yet the burden I carried was unbearable.

"It feels heavy," I whimpered, the words barely escaping through my trembling lips.

Tbor stopped, glancing over his shoulder, his brow furrowing. "What does?"

"Me." The word was more of a plea than a statement. I wasn’t just talking about my body—I was talking about everything. The weight of everything I had endured, everything I still had to endure.

He sighed through his nose, his breath a warm puff in the cold stairwell. "Almost there," he replied, his voice flat, devoid of comfort. He didn’t understand. How could he? He was just here to do his job.

We climbed a few more steps, my legs quivering with every motion. My breath came in shallow gasps, and the walls seemed to close in around us, trapping us in this endless cycle of darkness. The silence between us was heavy, broken only by the faint sound of my ragged breathing and the distant echo of a door slamming somewhere behind us. The sound jolted me, sending a fresh surge of panic through my chest.

"I'm carrying you," Tbor hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Before I could protest, his arms wrapped around me, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. I wanted to argue, to push him away, but my body betrayed me. I was too weak to fight.

He ran us through the narrow hallway, his footsteps echoing off the cold, sterile walls. I could barely keep my head up, the world spinning in and out of focus. My feet dangled uselessly, the concrete floor a blur beneath me.

Ahead, the garage doors loomed, heavy and forbidding. The passageway was dark, neglected, with only a few flickering lights to guide us. The cold seeped into my skin, chilling me to the bone. Tbor cursed under his breath as he set me down, his hands shaking as he patted his pockets.

No garage door button. He was frantic now, glancing around, eyes wide with fear. The footsteps were getting closer, the sound of them echoing like the steady beat of a death march. We limped toward a darker corner, trying to hide, but there was nowhere to go. The silhouette came into view, and the flash of white—the unmistakable white coat—sent a shiver of dread through me.

Pin.

He stood there, calm, collected, holding the button in his hand. He knew we had nothing. He had all the control. The sunlight outside was dim, blocked by thick clouds that churned like an oncoming storm. Snow drifted lazily across the fields, but it wasn’t peaceful—it was suffocating, an omen of what was to come.

Pin nodded sharply at Tbor, and without a word, Tbor scooped me up again. We ran through the bitter cold, the wind slicing through us like knives. The snow stung our faces, our hands, but there was no time to stop. We had to keep moving.

At the edge of the field, I could see Tbor’s vehicle, a distant shape through the swirling snow. But it was too far. I was too heavy. 

"Put me down," I gasped, my voice barely audible over the howling wind.

Tbor shook his head frantically. "No."

"Yes," I insisted, my body twisting in his grip, desperate to escape. "We don’t have a choice."

He stopped, his green eyes locking onto mine. For the first time, I saw something in his expression that I couldn’t name—something dark, something raw. It wasn’t fear for me. No, it was something deeper. He wasn’t afraid of losing me; he was afraid of failing. Of being held responsible for whatever happened next. I was an object, something to be delivered, something to be kept alive, but not someone. Not a person.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. The more people treated me like an object, the more I lost pieces of myself. Who was I now? Did it even matter?

He furrowed his brows as if he could see the emptiness growing inside me, and for a moment, I thought he might say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he placed a hand on the side of my neck, applying firm pressure under my ears. His touch was meant to ground me, but it felt invasive, too intimate for the coldness between us.

"You can’t leave me right now," he murmured, his voice tight with desperation. There was no affection, no concern—only the brutal reality of survival.

I nodded weakly, and we began our slow, agonizing trek across the field. The pain in my legs was unbearable, and every step felt like I was sinking into quicksand.

The blizzard was relentless, reducing the world to a blur of white. The building behind us faded into nothingness, swallowed by the storm. I could barely move my legs, each step a battle to stay upright. The wind tore at my clothes, my body shaking violently from the cold.

I was wearing nothing but a thin white shirt and scrub pants, their light blue color now a dull grey against the harsh white of the snow. The fabric rustled like paper, scratching against my skin as the wind battered us from every angle. My eyelashes clumped together, ice forming on them until my vision was almost completely blocked. I blinked furiously, trying to clear them, but it was useless.

Tbor gripped my arm tightly, guiding us through the storm, but I could feel his strength fading. His fingers were nearly purple, his grip weakening as the cold seeped into his bones. His own clothes—a pair of white track pants and a loose shirt—offered little protection against the freezing wind. How long had I been in the coma? Long enough for him to need a change of clothes, long enough for everything to go to hell.

Finally, we reached the cement underfoot, a momentary relief from the soft snow. But we were both shaking uncontrollably now, the cold gnawing at us, relentless. Tbor’s fingers slipped from my arm, and he fumbled with his keys, his hands trembling so violently that he dropped them. He cursed, catching them against his thigh, and managed to unlock the door on his second attempt.

He half-carried, half-pushed me into the driver’s seat, folding my legs awkwardly over the dashboard as I slumped into the passenger side. He slammed the door behind him, and we sat there in the stillness, our breath exploding in ragged clouds, the windows fogging from the heat of our bodies.

The windshield was covered in a thick layer of frost. It wasn’t just a dusting—it was solid ice, the kind that clung to the glass like a second skin. I groggily raised my hand, scraping at it with my fingernails, watching as small flakes of ice fell onto the dash.

Tbor let out a slow, shuddering breath, his head falling back against the headrest. His eyes were closed, his expression one of pure exhaustion. "Christ," he muttered, his voice hoarse, thick with frustration and defeat. Was he praying? Or was he just cursing the world, cursing me?

Either way, it meant the same thing. We were in over our heads. And we weren’t going to survive this.

I closed my eyes too, the weight of everything finally crashing down on me. The strings that had held me together were snapping, one by one. And soon, there would be nothing left.