Chapter Text
At first, he couldn't see, just heard the buzzing of nearby mosquitoes looking for skin, beetles and fly wings vibrating past his ears, crickets below him squeaking out a familiar tune. His eyes squinted and watered when they tried to focus on the light ahead. A burning orange horizon bouncing off the tips of a uniform field of stalks. His wrists were barely held to his wooden crucifix by loops of fraying rope; he easily pulled his hands through and out. Strung up 8 feet above the ground, feet balanced on a block 5x5 inches, one change of stance and he'd be tumbling off in a less than calculated way. Rubbing his fingertips together felt awkward. Rough and numb, like they were asleep. Stitches ran up his wrist. He felt up his arm to find the jagged cuts racing up his skin, wrapped around his bicep, across his chest where they caught on rough and weathered clothing. All of his skin felt numbed, as if he was touching it with a thick jacket on. A patchwork doll. He felt smooth leather on his face, metal tunnels around his eyes that creaked softly when he looked from left to right.
He landed on his side, barely missing the stalks planted in front of him. Beetles crawled onto his arm, thin insect legs too delicate for him to feel on his too-thick skin without spotting them. The moon rose up, and it was easier to see. Easier to walk between endless lanes of plants. He noticed clusters of earworms digging through husks, trying to find dinner. He squeezed the ones he spotted as he walked by, dropping them to the floor for other insects to feast on. Soft dirt eased between his toes as he walked, twigs dug in occasionally, but felt muted and dull. He ignored them and walked on. He walked in circles and loops, picking worms and pulling at leaves. Cool air passed under his mask and smelled of fresh dirt and decomposing plant matter. He scratched at the dry hay tickling his neck and shoulders under his hood. The sky lightened and his gut told him that he shouldn’t be caught roaming the rows.
On his way back to the wooden beams he fell from, he took in the buildings of the property. A freshly painted barn, orange. A tall brick silo. An aged cabin was visible near his perch. A home. As he climbed up the splintered beam, back onto his 5x5 pedestal, he turned his head to the wooden structure. Uneven stairs which bent and caved at the center from years of supporting heavy steps led up to a porch with a bench, all covered by an awning of boards. He wanted to memorize the small house. He wanted to visit it. A primal urge to explore: Curiosity. He barely had enough time to take in the patches of wall where white paint had chipped off in huge chunks until the sun began to rise. His eyes began to blur and burn as early morning mists of grey dissipated into rays of golden dawn. The tint of his goggles helped counter the blinding sun, but he bent his head down to avoid the light altogether . He slipped his wrists into the loose ropes as he heard the creaking of wood.
Doors.
Doors.
But he couldn't turn, he stiffened. It felt unnatural to move. Wrong. He had to hide, but in plain sight of course. He couldn't give himself away. But his brain scrambled and rushed with the adrenaline of the idea of another living thing besides ones that could fit into his hand. No, the creaking of his eyes would be obvious. Crickets continued their songs but he filtered it out. Nevermind the company of lowly night crawlers; he could hear the rustling of crop leaves as something bigger moved between the stalks, just as he had mere hours before. He itched to look up and regretted his decision to pose staring at the dirt below him. Dirt imprinted with his own bare feet. Foolish. He swallowed. His heartbeat would quicken with the rustling of stalks closer to him. Was it the afternoon wind, or the owner of the property. Was he part of the property? Under the possession of the person in the house?
His excitement ended too soon and too late with the opening and closing of the door at sunset, and so his eyes and heart relaxed. He finally peered up at the house to watch the lights in the rooms switch off one by one.
Who flicked the switches.
Who planted and tended to the fields.
Who strung him up to oversee the property, to rid the crops of pests.
He pulled his hands from the ropes and jumped down from his ledge. This time he landed on sure feet.
This time he felt like running, fresh excitement flowed through him at the idea of company. He felt as though years had been spent in solitude. He has only been awake for one day, but the ache for the attention of someone else felt deeper and older than his time spent conscious.
He ran through the forest of dark green, thick rows, even and organized, which waved and parted when he passed by. He ran the perimeter, and saw a dilapidated fence mark the edge of his home.
Could he call it his home?
He thought he could.
It felt right.
Snap.
Face first into cool dirt and he felt a dull pressure on his foot. He twisted to see his foot bent unnaturally, crushed and cracked to the right, rusted metal teeth bit into flesh almost clean through at the ankle. He felt nothing but the pressure of something tugging at his ankle when he tried to pull loose. He yanked his leg and flailed. Panic. An animal in a trap.
The sky lightened.
He pounded at the steel trap with shaking fists, picked at rusty springs with blackened nails, and pried the jaws with his bare hands. Minutes passed in futile struggling. He pulled at a pole of the nearby fence, feeling himself finally part with the useless foot. When he was able to move away from the trap, he felt lighter. Much lighter. A glance to the ground revealed his leg to the knee lying in the dirt, far above the ankle where jaws remained clamped down, stitches brutally ripped out and detached. Where a seam had once passed above his knee, his thigh now sprouted a thick bundle of hay. Fogging breath came out sharp and fast and his body shook.
He knew it had once been flesh; the leg that was now a rod of silly canvas stuffed with dry straw and a puffy foot of the same stuck in the trap. He could feel blood flow under the skin of his twin leg, where stitches still held him together strong and well.
He sat and shook in the dirt.
The crickets and beetles that crawled along him, that had been his company and entertainment the night before, now made him feel alone. This felt wrong. Disgusting. His stomach turned at the sight of his jokingly fake detached leg. The canvas of his limb ripped from the jaws easily, but tangled in the springs and he abandoned it there. He used the fence to stand. His remaining knee felt weak and shook. He hobbled towards his perch. He didn't look back. He absentmindedly crushed worms as he slowly hopped along.
Why was he here.
Who lived in the home.
What was their name.
What was his name.
He struggled to clamber back on to his stand. He teetered on one leg as he placed his hands in their usual position. Would his owner even notice?
This time, he looked ahead towards the field.
Morning grey into fresh warming sun.
And the creaking of a wooden door.