When this story began, I found myself waking up to the uncomfortable feeling of stone against my back. My body slumped against a corner, and I could feel a sleeping sensation coming from my legs, crumpled underneath me.
I tasted booze on my lips, and my head felt heavy.
Dim morning light shone its first streaks towards me as my eyes creaked open, reaching only a little into the alleyway I lay at the end of, as if even the sun was afraid to get to close.
Laying in sewer water, drunk. This is how the story started.
I began to take notice of the pain growing like mold on different parts of my body. My chest echoed with it, and bones in my legs and spots on my shoulders and arms, resonating pain through every inch of flesh.
Trying as hard as I could to move, even a muscle, I eventually coaxed this hand up, holding it up to this face like a newborn baby, all wobbling.
Knobby, calloused, grey things, they were - these hands. It always astonished me how often I woke up like this in an old man's skin. It seemed to fit me more comfortably than most.
My intoxicated brain balked at the thought of rising, of pushing these old bones and muscles to their feet, so I tried to remember the night before.
There was no way I was present as of last night. Not being this drunk. It was likely that the old man passed in the night, and I stepped in his place. It was the only thing that made sense.
I felt around for some sort of wallet, anything, in these pockets, and found nothing. Robbed, then.
I clung to some small flicker of motivation before it faded and told these limbs to move. These arms to brace themselves against the ground and push. These feet to stay as the legs unfolded.
I did not succeed the first time. Or the second.
However, after more attempts than it should've normally taken, I finally stood, shaking and pale. It was only then that I noticed scabs brushing against the thin shirt my body wore and realized I'd lost blood. I decided my first job would be to find water, and then use the shirt to bind the wound after washing it. I didn't want to tear off the scabs and bleed out, but the wound would need to be cleaned.
I wonder why I cared about that body. There would be others, down the road.
I wonder if I knew about the events that would occur while I wore it, and how they would echo throughout the rest of my life, like the pain I felt then? I feel as though my care for this one was different. Special.
Unaware of this future ahead of me, I willed my body forward, and limping it came. I ignored the pain in its legs and used its arms to help pull myself along the wall. I breathed out a ragged breath as my eyes adjusted to the light at the end of the alley.
I could see a wide cobblestone area in front of me, and an expanse of water beyond that, with some small boats moored there, glittering in the morning sun.
The stones were worn by cart tracks and footprints, but faded murals hid below the layer of dirt and grime. It seemed to be some sort public gathering place, and my suspicions were proved correct as I watched a cart roll by filled with linens, and another with root vegetables and fruits.
Letting my body rest against the wall, I watched the sellers set up shop. The morning was still early, and they took their time, rubbed their eyes, yawned as they worked. These were the early risers, coming to get their spots before another merchant stole the best ones.
I measured the steps from the alley to the docks beyond, and steeled myself. I could tell that this wasn't the sort of place where a stranger offered to help an old drunk man across the square.
Before I could convince myself otherwise, my body moved ahead of its own accord, eyes on the water, thoughts buried in medical procedures I'd picked up every now and again. How to dress a wound. The best way to clean the scabs off, gently but with pressure.
With patience, and distraction, I managed to make my way to the dock. The pain seemed to reach a crescendo just as my feet felt the wooden boards beneath my feet, and I nearly fell to the ground in relief. The smell of sea air wafted to my nostrils and helped to clear the drunken fog wrapped around my brain.
I looked around myself, and could see that I hadn't attracted any attention. Every seller was still wrapped up in their work, putting out their things for the day. More carts wandered into the square, eyes of their drivers bleary, ignoring the old man struggling to sit by the water without falling over.
Carefully, I lifted the thin shirt I was wearing over my head, and set it beside me on the dock. I felt blood and pus dribble down from the wound there. I would need to do this quickly. Making my way down to a sitting position, I put my legs in the water.
It bit me with its cold morning teeth, and sent a shock to my dulled senses, but it could've been colder. I imagined it could be pleasant in the afternoon, after the sun warmed it for a few hours. It looked fairly shallow, and I trusted that fact. I don't know if I would've been able to coach that body to swim.
I braced my arms, felt pain shooting up them to my shoulders and my back, and lowered myself into the water. My feet hit sand and I let myself go.
The water came up about to the middle of my chest, submerging the wound in the water.
I stood there, leaning my head against the dock, and thought through the steps I would need to take to approach the wound. Already, I could feel the scabs growing soggy, loosening their grips from my skin.
It took me more than a few minutes to steel my nerve, but one of my knobby old hands took hold of the edge of the scabbed area and pulled. Hard. Fast.
Blood poured out into the water, as I saw the wound open its flappy jaws at me. Seeing its true face for the first time, I realized how this old man must've died. It wasn't the broken body, or the bruised head, but the knife wound in the side.
Deeper than I expected. I shook my hands dry in the air as the scab floated away freely.
The water all around me was red now, and I fought to keep from panicking.
Waiting for my hands to dry off before grabbing my shirt, I noticed movement beneath the surface of the water.
I wondered for a short moment whether I had attracted some predatory fish. I should've thought of this sooner, although I find there are less than is often depicted in pulp horror stories.
They were some sort of fish, I was fully aware, as I half-consciously reached for my shirt on the dock above me. I saw their scales glinting in the sunlight, beneath the water, and felt a strange attraction to them. They likely felt the same attraction to me, as well. Could smell my blood. Perhaps hoping for some scavenges from a bigger kill, by a bigger fish.
I felt a little sorry for the fish. I wasn't dead yet.
Standing still, I watched the movement swarm around me.
A particular ray of morning sun pierced past me and into the water. The movement began to glint and sparkle colourfully.
A tail splattered water on my face, as one of them turned over. Then one of them poked their face above the water.
It was strangely human, but gills opened below it's jaws. It's face green and smooth like skin, but scales growing behind it. And they were many colours, like a cloak made of rainbow and mirror.
It opened it's mouth a little, as if it tried to speak. A little dizzy from loss of blood, I waved back. It smiled.
A shadow moved to cover the water, and the creature looked above me and darted beneath the water in a flash of scales and seaspray.
I looked behind me.
A man stood on the dock, blocking the sun, head cocked slightly. "You don't look too good," he said in a young, lively voice.
He reached out a hand and squatted down. "Come on, we'll get you out of that water. You can play with fish another day."
Already feeling lightheaded, I took his hand. It was slender, but strong, and grasped hold of my wrist. With one pull that stretched wide the wound in my side, I was up on the dock.
He held my shirt in his hands and wrapped it tight around me. "You'll dry off soon enough. That sun's far away now, but it's going to be blazing over this place. Lie out in it, and that wound should scab over nicely, now that it's clean."
I only caught a glimpse of his face, but, in that short sweet moment, it branded itself into the skin my memory.
Pale, slender, strong. Deep black hair, tamed and brushed back carelessly. Eyes that glittered like diamonds in the dark.
That day, so many days ago.... It was the first day I met the man who called himself Raven.