1st draft of first chapter

[FatDave]

Never written anything, want to know if I'm able.

Have a look and tell me what you think, feel free to be brutal.

 

The Fall

 

 

 

Chapter 1

He awoke. Slowly, gently, his awareness becoming lucid so subtly that the transition between sleep and consciousness went almost unnoticed to him. In the first peaceful moments of his awakened state his mind grabbed for information like a vacuum seeking to be filled. The first, and most pressing concern, was the pain which suddenly filled his world, and in an instant, pushed away all remaining tiredness. Everywhere there was muscle there was fire, and as he flinched away from one area of agony, his efforts were countered by an opposing wall of pain, like a sentient beast pre-empting his movements as it toyed with its prey. His arid throat denying him the relief of a scream as he fought the white heat of agony which attacked him from every angle, no audible sound came from his burning lungs as he desperately sought help against the unknown cause of his woes. After several minute-long seconds, the pain became bearable, the more he moved, the less the pain, like the volume dial on his nerves was being turned down by an unknown hand, and the relief he felt allowed him to stop his squirming, relieving the pain further. As it faded to a background burn, and his body entered a state of rest, his mind became able for the first time to assess the situation. All around him was blackness, the kind of virgin darkness that gave the impression it has never met the light. This kind of darkness hid where nobody went. It lived deep underground, where life was not welcome, the kind of darkness caused not by a lack of light, but by the presence of its antithesis. As he lay motionless, staring into the nothing in front of him, he felt the darkness peer back with animalistic curiosity.

The source of his disorientation slowly dawned on him when he realised his arms were higher than his head, somewhere out of his field of vision, held there by gravity, and he quickly deduced he was hanging upside down, the pressure in his head evidence to his conclusion. He strained against the stiffness to look towards his feet, the muscular effort ushering in fresh bouts of fiery pain, almost unbearable, until he eventually surrendered the action, retiring to the position dictated to him by gravity. He had lost the battle against his body and the effort had left him exhausted. It was at this moment of surrender, that the thought pattern which started as a whisper in the recesses of his mind grew in voice, fed by confusion, panic its product, until the hundred and one questions firing through his brain, too fast for any of them to form a conscious thought long enough to be satisfied with an answer, fell quiet as the most important question called for silence and demanded to be heard. “Who the hell am I?”

Sleep was long behind him; his thoughts were gaining speed as the clouds in his head slowly parted, but no sunlight shone through. He had ignored his lack of memory up to now, placing the blame on his unusual circumstances of awakening, but now, having given himself adequate time, the absence of memory fed fuel to the panic which had been rising from his very core since he awoke. Not only had he no memory of the events leading up to his bizarre incapacitation, he had no memories whatsoever. As he lay still, he tried to regain control of his thoughts, directing them toward the past, but there was nothing, no memory older than two minutes, and the more he concentrated, the more the pressure in his head bothered him. He continued to search, looking for faded writing on the chalkboard of his past, but the slate was washed clean, it was as though his brain was completely new, fresh out of the box, and the implications terrified him.

What trauma could cause the complete disappearance of all memory? Injury perhaps could do it. He began to move his hands towards his head to check for wounds, but stopped as the pain in his muscles began anew. The relief he felt when he relaxed the burning joints was almost audible and he swallowed hard, feeling the first signs of moisture in his throat. He swallowed again, the feel of saliva relieving soreness in his throat he hadn’t even noticed before. Only when a thirst began to take hold did he begin to feel the sickening pains of hunger, just another addition to his lengthening list of troubles. He knew he needed food, and water, though he had no memory of ever eating or drinking. He wondered how it was possible that he could have no memory, not even of his own name, and yet have knowledge of language, or human processes. He craved tastes to satisfy his hunger and recalled the feeling of ice cold water in his mouth, though he had no point of reference of any occasion that he had actually experienced such a thing. What could take away all that he was, all that he has done, even his name, but leave him enough to know he was lacking?

A new determination for answers electrified him and as though beyond his control he found his arms moving, through the pain, towards his head. He felt ashamed by his earlier surrender as his desire for knowledge numbed him against the severity of his pain. He moved quickly, like ripping a plaster and his hand were touching his face before the pain truly began, but the accomplishment was marred by the shock of what he felt. Touching the skin on his cheek with his hands, he didn’t feel the warm pliable flesh he had been expecting, instead his finger tips were met by hard, cold bone. Only when he smoothed his hands over his cheekbones did he feel the tissue thin dry skin which covered his face. The horror of his appearance allowed him to probe his own face far longer than his muscular pain wanted to allow, and he felt his mouth, sunken eyes, ears, and nose with curious hands. The face he found was skeletal and sharp, with no welcoming softness, like rough silk draped over rubble. As he explored his features his eyes, fighting against his control over them, gained and lost focus on his hands. What he saw churned his empty stomach as he gazed upon the flesh of a dead man. His fingers contained no meat or fat, just skin so white that on first glance appeared to be his own bone. On closer inspection he noticed the lack of hair or finger nails and without expectation of sound, he let out a whimpering, whispering scream, all he could muster, the shock and disgust rising in him forcing him to succumb to the tiredness in his muscles and relax his skeletal arms back to his position of rest.

He felt it more than ever now, the blind, panicked terror. It rose inside him threatening to take him over and he thought he would lose control and snap. Once again, he bucked against gravity, as though he could escape its bonds, as well as the physical bonds he still could not see, if he just endured the pain and protested enough. His own outburst surprised him, and as he managed a pathetic whispered “help”, the syllable born out of agonising labour, he regretted his accomplishment immediately. He relaxed, staring into the void, mouth agape. He daren’t make another sound; even his raspy dry breath was slowed. His confusion lasted only a few seconds until the cause of this new uneasiness became clear to him. Where was the echo? Other than the sounds he was making there was nothing but the absolute quiet of the void, but when he had cried out his voice had been swallowed up as soon as it had been released. He stayed as still as possible, as though being stalked by an animal and any sound he made would give him away, as the feeling arose in him that he was not alone. He felt eyes on him from every direction. His ears twitched as he strained them, scanning for sound that his rising paranoia was trying to convince him to expect.

For a long time he lay there, paralyzed, his fear left him unable to move. His short, quick breaths the only noise, he tried to bring his breathing under control again. As he probed the void he reflected on how his hands were visible in the darkness. There was no light source in his field of vision, or anywhere to his immediate left or right. His skin was the only thing he could see on which any light fell, as if his own skin was the source of the light. He knew this was impossible, but then, the boundaries of possible seemed to be lacking the smooth edges he was expecting. His illuminated skin made him feel exposed, on display. He felt he was being judged.

In the quietness that accompanied his attempts to gain inner calm, he contemplated on his situation. He was a prisoner. From the feeling of the air on his body, he believed himself to be naked. Any movement brought severe pain, like his muscles had been out of service for a very long time. He was impossibly thin, more so than anybody should be who held onto life. He was suspended by who knows what in an area of unspeakable size, by an unknown, who had taken all his memories. All of this, he knew, was impossible, and yet here he was, awash with feelings of utter helplessness. If he had any tears in him, he would have shed them, but as he began sobbing uncontrollably, yet as quietly as he could, no moisture came to his dry eyes.

He wondered who, or what, had the power and will to do such a thing? As the exhaustion of the first half hour of his life so far took hold, he faded into sleep. His trembling finally stopped.

[Ron Blanco]

Never written anything, want to know if I'm able.

 

Hello FatDave,

 

In my opinion you are able. I liked it, thought it was clever, and applaud the intelligence that went into it.

 

On first pass through I pictured a disoriented man, which was quite intriguing, though not particularly compelling. But I thought the overall impact was good.

[FatDave]

Hello FatDave,

 

In my opinion you are able. I liked it, thought it was clever, and applaud the intelligence that went into it.

 

On first pass through I pictured a disoriented man, which was quite intriguing, though not particularly compelling. But I thought the overall impact was good.

 

Thanks for your comments. I was aware as I wrote that I was going into too much detail(and have had this confirmed by the Mrs), and there is a reason for that that's relevant to the story. I'm now rewriting, trying to leave some things to the readers imagination.

 

The impossible situation the character finds himself in is what I hope will pull the reader into the story, as the character is revealed in parts to the reader and to the character himself(as memories in the form of dreams(again, the way I have chosen to reveal the memories is story relevent)), but perhaps if I give more information, and less detail in the first chapter, then the story would be more captivating.

[Ron Blanco]

Spoiler Alert:

 

I have to confess I thought it was a short story, with the twist revealed in the final sentences. Until that point I thought it was about a man. Was that the intention or am I being slow?

 

In any case, I think your story is more interesting than the last book we read at our book club. It was called Old Filth by Jane Gardam, and it was rubbish. I'd much rather have read The Fall by FatDave.

[Tallyman]

Intriguing stuff, FatDave - you've got my attention!

 

You're right, though, you have gone into a lot of detail. It reminds me that I've taken several months to struggle through Marcel Proust, who takes several pages just telling you what it's like to wake up in the morning. Never again, I'll never get those months back...

 

But your story is good and captivating, and I'd like to know how you're going to resolve the strange anomalies. You already know that you need to do a little judicious editing, but that should only make it sharper.

 

I'm looking forward to reading more. Please write some!!

[#James#]

Im not expert, and this is only my opinion. As a stand-alone piece of writing it's nicely done, but to me it seems like it's writing for the sake of writing, like you're not really sure where you're heading with it. There are too many references to fire and burning in the first paragraph. It's kind of like thats all that was on your mind when you were writing this - I feel like I'm being beaten over the head with the idea of this burning fire over and over again You're a good writer, but to me it feels like you're just laying down good sentences with no focus and theyre only adding to the confusion. Maybe take a step back and look at exactly what it is youre trying to convey, what is the point of what you've written, and could it be done in a shorter manner, or broken up throughout the story as a series of flashbacks for example?