Awake Once More.

Cold. The discomfort is immediate, A chill that goes bone deep—soon, followed by the smell of earth. Wrong. A choking smell, not fresh air but dank, cobweb-like air. Breathing is unnaturally challenging.

Trees. I do not hear them. There is no rustling of nearby leaves. No birds or wind passed by my eardrums. The only sounds originate from me as I regain my senses. The cold is almost unbearable now.

I open my eyes, only to find that they are already open. But they are covered by a thick fabric. I move to remove it, but I am alerted to a new consequence of my current state.

My hands. The ache finally sets into my joints, and I find that curling my fingers is a challenge I am unprepared for. I try, perhaps in vain, to make things right again. To right myself again. Trying, aching to simply move. If I can just get up. If I can just stand up. I slap my hand around wildly and find I am on a table. Metal and cruel in its chill and its loud hollow noise.

Edge. The table's edge is just inches from my hand, and suddenly I am filled with a steady determination. I try to swing my legs over the side of the table. But blinded and unsteady, I miss horribly. And as I tumble to the ground, I am met with the horrid stench of death and a sticky, most likely, dirty floor.

I clumsily reach for the bandage and manage to work for my hand enough to curl around the offending fabric, barring me from my sight. With effort, I am finally able to free my vision, and nearly immediately, I am filled with regret.

I am met with what was once a face. But what's left in front of me is no longer a person. Gelatinous gore and crumbling bone Are eaten away by fat, hearty mushrooms, and fungus. I reel back and hit my head on the leg of the cold, awful table. Instinctually, I reach to comfort my head. But what I feel is not my skull. Not right away. I'm met with spongy, firm material. My fingers have not yet adjusted to finer details like texture.

I go to pull at it but keep pulling at hair and flesh. Leave it for now. Get off the floor. My stomach is churning. My mind is reeling. Clumsily with untrained limbs, I clamor up off the ground. When I slip on the person soaked into the floor, I am reminded of my digestive system.

Black ichorous fluid rushes from my stomach. Up to my throat stinging the whole way, and for a moment, I am deeply disappointed that my sense of taste has returned.

What a miserable morning is it morning? The only light is a small window above me covered in opaque cloth.

Regaining some of my dexterity, I make my way to a nearby wall. Resting my weight against it. It's earthen, carved from rock and dirt, contrasted by the glass bottles and beakers. Lining the many tables and basins, filled with the fungi that thrive on the walls, some more ghastly, filled with what would once be recognized as limbs or organs.

Wherever I am, I wish to be somewhere else. Somewhere warm.

I look around the awful room averting my gaze from the remnants of the corpse on the ground. Above me, up a staircase, a door. Held in place by a chain and a lock. Of course. I look around the room once more, walking to the tables and counters. No key. But I have a feeling I know who would have one.

I have the key. I grip it as tightly as I am capable, my hands covered in the slick red goo. And make my way up the stairs, my knees threatening to collapse beneath me.

Getting the key to the mechanism is hard, but I steel myself and focus hard on turning the key, and while it takes a considerable amount of time, I am soon met with freedom. I climb the stair and push the doors open with all the strength I can muster. Light. Unfiltered oppressive bright light causes me to fumble back to shield myself from the shine of it. And find that hooked on the wall is a musty old cloak, and I reach toward it to protect myself from the worst of the sun's rays.

Back again. I rise from the cellar, lab, awful place. And pass through the threshold onto rich soil. Earth, as I know it. Teeming with life.

Above the cellar is a house. One I don't recognize.

Maybe I can speak to the owner, get clean, then head home.

I make my way to the door, the wind reaching underneath my cloak now making me painfully aware of my nudity, with only dirty old bandages to cover my modesty. I pull the cloak around myself, ensuring any offending skin is covered.

No one answers at first. I worry for a moment that no one is home; I peek through the window of the farmhouse door but find that the lacy drapes are hard to make anything out behind it.

Until. A little girl no taller than a fawn comes to the door.

“Who is it?”

It's a good question, I suppose.

My mind prepares the words, but my tongue does not form them.

“Bel.” is all I manage to get out before sinking my teeth directly into the soft muscle.

“Bel? That's a pretty name!”

I couldn't imagine being anything close to pretty right now. But the girl opens the door anyway.

When we are finally facing one another, she seems to second guess this decision.

The child is stunned and silent. I can’t blame her. A dirty, smelly man covered in offal has come to her door. I hope I haven't scared her too much.

“Anna, I told you not to answer the door for anyone; why don't you ever listen to” The woman is struck silent.

I guessed I probably looked in a rough shape. But I hadn't expected such a response.

Suddenly the woman screams a sharp, cutting scream causing me to wince. She sprints for her daughter, scooping the tiny girl in her arms and rushing passed me at the door. Running off out of the house and down the road.

Now fully clothed, I headed to my farm. It should be just a day's walk, and I feel I'd had enough rest for one day.

There is nothing here but overgrown vegetation, a sickly brown and green plagued with blight. My home reduced to boards and splinters. My girls, the sheep. Gone. Bones litter the old pens. I make my way to the pond, nearly dried up, but a bit of water still sits on the scummy bed.

And I finally see what scared that little one so much.

I had been considered handsome once upon a time. Her name, she described my eyes as what had she said? Who had she been?

“Like the bright sky.” she had said in that lovely voice of hers; if they had been the sky once, they were now clouded by a dull haze.

But what was much more jarring. On the right side of my face, the flesh had been crudely stitched back in place. Now familiar fungi jutting through my scar tissue and pulling at my features slightly.

I covered my mouth with a hand only to see that the back of it was also covered in thick shelflike, spongy mushrooms. Suddenly I take to inspecting myself. My pale skin was now a sickly greying color and covered in different cultures of fungi.

I don't realize I'm screaming before I feel it in my chest, a burning sensation as ragged inhuman sobs escape my lips. Where are my neighbors? Where is my home?