What happened?
He could see the white ceiling faintly, and a spark produced by the dangling chandelier. Where was he, was all that was asked next.
Just how many seconds had passed ever since he saw everything in his vision clearly, and the next thing he did was to extend his arms forward while still resting and feel his hands suspended in the air.
Knock, knock.
No matter how hard he stared at his hands, no answers came to his mind, and the only reply he could get was the continous knocking on the door outside his room. Just what the hell is happening?
He sighed.
Then he blinked his eyes.
Just...
He closed his hands, and opened them, and then suddenly closed them again, like a child... Like only learning to control his senses.
What he could feel was how fast the beats of his heart were, and how his mind rung. So fast, so loud, so deafening. In seconds that would came to be, he would've gotten insane. To hell he must've traveled, and tis heaven he must've abandoned.
He counted his fingers like it was his first time, and counted time that seemed to slow some more. As though he couldn't understand. What the hell should I understand?
The more that he thought about such things, the deeper his misery was. Suddenly, he could feel how there was warmth on the bed he was lying, and that how comfortable was the sheet covering his body. This white sheet, and...
White clothes?
He sat on the bed and that was the first thing he noticed. White clothes, like that of a pair of nightclothe weaved out of satin. Then like that whiteness, his skin, too, was having that complexion. Truthfully, fairer that what he could imagine.
The very skin that somehow showed strangeness. Something terrible, this estrangement. It's the very soul that's saying it was never his—that neat hands that seemed to not met hardwork, and these thin wrists.
Knock, knock.
Just as he wondered on the alienated feelings stirring inside him, all that was left was the impression that he was a spectator from a different body... Like a lost soul in a dream. Was it even a dream?
The hell's wrong with him, and these hands... Just why were they shaking? As the cold suddenly washed through his body, his mind rung again, like there was a bell and that bell's sound pierced his very being.
Where was I? He asked again, pondering what could've entrapped him to such place, as though he was supposed to sleep. But to which extent could this sleep be?
More importantly...
Who am I?
His throat was rather dry, and the moment he tried to gulp before he gasped for air, it seemed that thirst was all he could think of. How did he even end up in this isolated place and why...
Knock, knock.
Why was there constant knocking on the door?
When his mind rung again, he faintly heard something. Rather, some word.
"Who's there?" Even his frail voice, deep and low, seemed strange to his hearing. "What do you need?"
Knock, knock. The knocks answered for themselves.
So, he glared at the door, scrutinizing its bloodred color. For all the color in this chamber had been dyed white except it. It seemed alive, gazing at his soul, distant from him yet near like doomsday.
"Who..." Before he could say another word, he remembered something.
'Blodeuwedd.' Someone told him. The voice wasn't as clear. He couldn't know who called him, but he knew who that was.
This name was his.
Because it's the only thing he could remember.
'Blodeuwedd, never...'
He found himself leaving the bed, but the moment that his feet touched the white marbled floor, they betrayed him so he tripped on his own. His vision then became hazed and his knees wobbled suddenly, like a weakling not even fond of standing up for himself.
He bit his lip. No other words could ever describe this feeling. Being helpless as he was, then being oblivious he became. He wasn't a child, no, he was a mere adult and he knew this truth. He was at that age that could have known walking, and yet why was he on his knees like this?
So he tried his best to stand, but stand felt like a weird word. It felt non-existent. To him, walking seemed something he never learned of.
Knock, knock.
But, at that moment, he could clearly hear the knocks even louder. Like a bang, but not as much force was exerted. Still, they were deemed angry, like the door was screaming at his face and was telling him to open it, cursing and shrieking even more.
Yet walking abandoned his being, so all he could do was to make himself remember its core essence.
He heaved a sigh and tried it for the second time. The moment his hand pushed the floor to support himself, he moved his feet swiftly but unsteadily to stand. He did, but to create steps was his biggest difficulty.
He stepped slowly, and slowly — one step, two steps — like a child that was indeed feeble-minded, unknowing if he'd slip or if the floor would make an enemy out of him. Nevertheless, he was walking, and walking some more, until he closed the distance to the door.
Soon, he held its knob.
Knock, knock.
"Who are you?" he asked while he calmed himself. Surely, there were sweats on his forehead yet it was only known to him the moment he reached the door. He was too occupied to even think about it earlier. "What do you need?"
He held it tightly. He just couldn't make himself to open it. Something was telling him that he shouldn't. It was the very same for his heart, and the very message that his soul could give.
But there was no answer.
Knock, knock.
Should he open it then? Perhaps, someone out there was truly concerned about him. But... he couldn't even tell who he was, what more this place, or the person outside the closed door.
In fact, he was stopping himself.
Like he knew what would happen the moment the door had opened.
"Why can't you answer me?" He smiled bitterly and could sense how his voice wasn't that define on his word choice. "Surely, if you answer then I..."
Knock, knock.
Why was it patient on knocking but not willing to respond? It's not as though someone was pranking him... Because if so—
"What are you?"
— then why was he suddenly quivering.
His entire system.
His eyes even more so felt dizzy.
It was not because he was exhausted. No, this feeling, this was something stranger, or ominous, as if telling him to run. To never exist at all.
Knock, knock!
His heart was drumming his being.
'Blodeuwedd, never open...'
"I... I repeat," he gulped, "just what the hell are you?"
Then it stopped.
No.
It only paused for a second.
Then he heard it tapping.
"What am I?" it replied to him with its many voices hidden in its many hisses.
His eyes widened and all the hair on his body rose like his soul was leaving him.
It took him a second to finally regain himself and said, "Yes..."
"Open the door and you shall know." It was bargaining, such wiseness and cunningness were behind it.
But how? He wanted to ask the being behind the room that separated him, however, he couldn't. He didn't have the courage to eventually retaliate.
How when...
When he remembered what the voice in the mere fragment of his memory warned him?
'Blodeuwedd.'
He looked at the doorknob he was holding still.
'Never open doors.'