Rude Awakening

A single deep breath came suddenly and forcefully, filling lungs that seemed to have forgotten how to function. It surged in—urgent and instinctive—like it was breaking through centuries of stillness. 

There was no memory of how long the emptiness had lasted, only the overwhelming need for air that now dominated everything.

 A man lay there, gasping once more, each breath a new discovery. His world was now reduced to this frantic rhythm—in and out, in and out—like waves crashing on unseen shores. His sight had not yet returned; neither had the other senses made themselves known. 

There was only this: the relentless demand of lungs remembering their purpose.

With every labored breath, he began to feel something new: warmth. It started as a light touch on his face. Then the gentle tingle slowly spread downwards. 

The sensation moved like sunrays over his skin. His cheeks and forehead, then his neck and shoulders, all began to awaken. Each slowly emerged from a deep sleep.

The warmth continued its patient journey. Down his chest it traveled, where his heart beat with newfound purpose, each pulse stronger than the last. 

Then to arms that had forgotten how to reach, fingers that had forgotten how to grasp. The sensation bloomed across his stomach, his hips, and finally down legs that had not yet remembered standing.

With each part reclaimed, the breathing eased its frantic pace. The initial desperation gave way to something steadier and more controlled. 

His consciousness expanded beyond the simple act of drawing breath, allowing the first coherent thought to form in the vast emptiness:

Where am I?

The question hung in the silence of his mind, unanswered. There was nothing before this moment—no memory, no context, nothing to explain this sudden awakening into existence.

Suddenly, everything fell into place as his senses came back. 

The first thing he noticed was the sharp, bitter scent of metal—it was cold, sterile, but oddly not distracting. Mixed with it was another smell he couldn’t quite figure out—maybe herbs or incense, but with an eerie essence to it that made him wrinkle his nose.

Then came the sensation of touch, more personal and direct than before. He noticed the tickling of his own hair against his neck, feeling longer than he instinctively knew it should be. 

The surface beneath him was solid and firm, with its chill penetrating the thin layer of fabric over him. 

He sensed a restriction in his position, implying that walls tightly enclosed him from every side.

He felt trapped, encased in something he instinctively compared to a coffin, even though the material surrounding him was unmistakably metal, not wood. 

The thought sent a shiver through his limbs. Summoning his courage, he cautiously opened his eyes, his eyelids feeling heavy. Light flooded his vision; it wasn't glaring, but even the soft glow felt overpowering after being in darkness.

He blinked quickly, tears welling up to shield eyes unaccustomed to light. Slowly, shapes began to take form, colors distinguished themselves, and details came into focus.

A wooden ceiling loomed overhead, its planks roughly cut yet perfectly aligned. Dark knots dotted the wood, and his mind wanted to find significance. 

His peripheral vision confirmed what his other senses suggested—he was enclosed in some kind of metal container, the metal sides rising just enough to obscure his view of the room that held him.

He struggled to lift himself up. His hand moved slowly like it was pushing through thick syrup instead of air until it finally grabbed the edge of the container. 

He tried to pull himself up to see beyond his immediate surroundings.

But it didn’t work.

Pain jolted through his arm, quick and sharp, shooting from his wrist to his shoulder like electricity. 

His muscles were just waking up but not quite ready, and they didn’t cooperate. His attempt to get up failed before it even started, and he fell back, his body too weak to understand why.

Gonna have to do this one step at a time, he thought, settling back into the metal container.

The frustration of failure mingled with a strange patience he didn’t recognize as his own. After all, what was the rush? He had nothing but time—though where that certainty came from, he couldn’t say.

He focused on his right hand, willing the fingers to flex. Once, twice. Each movement sent tiny lightning bolts of discomfort through his arm, but less intense than before.

Progress.

Next came the wrist, rotating it slowly, feeling the tendons stretch and wake up. The pain was there but duller now, more like an echo than a scream.

He spent several minutes gradually reviving his body, beginning with his left hand and then moving to his arms and shoulders. 

Each movement demanded focus, gently urging his long-inactive limbs to wake. Whenever he accidentally touched them, the metal walls of the container felt cold against his skin.

When he tried again to pull himself upright, the pain returned, but not as overwhelming as before. 

His arms trembled with the effort, barely lifting his shoulders before giving out. He collapsed back, breathing heavily but already planning his next attempt.

The third try came after he’d worked on tightening his core muscles, preparing them to support his weight. 

This time, he managed to raise his head and shoulders a few inches higher before falling back. The fourth attempt gained him another inch. The fifth, yet another.

With every effort, the pain lessened, and his strength grew as if his body was relearning how to move, exist, and function. Sweat formed on his forehead, trickling coolly down his face—another feeling reclaimed. The process followed a steady rhythm: try, rest, recover, and try again.

Throughout it all, his mind stayed oddly calm, focused solely on the immediate task. There would be time to ask questions later—about where he was, how he ended up here, and what had happened before the emptiness.

At last, after what seemed like endless slow progress, he grabbed the metal edge with both hands, took a deep breath, and pulled himself up. His torso lifted, and though his arms were trembling, they held firm. 

The pain was still there but more bearable now, more like a dull ache than an overpowering force. With one last push, he managed to sit fully upright, feeling the blood drain from his head.

I did it!

Finally upright, he savored the small victory. But the moment of triumph was short-lived. As the blood settled in his head, something else rushed in—a sharp, penetrating pain in his chest that wasn’t physical. 

This was different, deeper. A phantom ache that seemed to come from somewhere beyond his body.

He clutched at his chest with a trembling hand, fingers grasping at fabric as if they could somehow reach inside and soothe the invisible wound. Images flashed through his mind—not complete memories, but violent snapshots that froze him in place. His breathing quickened, becoming shallow and rapid.

A car. Sleek and dark against rain-slicked pavement.

A crash. The sickening crunch of metal against metal.

A bridge. Its guardrail torn away like paper.

Water. Cold and absolute, rushing in from everywhere at once.

“I can’t breathe,” he wheezed. The first words from his mouth in this world came out as a raspy whisper. The irony wasn’t lost on him—having just fought so hard to control his breathing, now finding it stolen away by these thoughts of... what? A past life? A nightmare?

More images came in disjointed bursts. Headlights reflecting off wet asphalt. The screech of tires. 

A face beside him in the car, familiar yet just beyond recognition. The weight of water pressing against a car door that wouldn’t open.

He sat there motionless, one hand gripping the edge of the metal container, the other resting on his chest like he was trying to keep himself whole. 

His heart pounded in his chest, but slowly the barrage of images faded away. The intense pain eased into a dull ache, and then it was just the memory of an ache.

Once his breathing became regular again, a clear understanding dawned on him with surprising clarity.

“Ah… I died. Got it.” The words came out flat, almost conversational. It was as if he were simply acknowledging a minor inconvenience rather than the end of his life.

With the realization came his name. Trey Creston. But everyone called him "Light". The syllables felt right, settling into place like the final pieces of a puzzle.

He sat there, allowing the emotions to wash through him—fear, confusion, a distant sort of grief. He didn’t fight them, merely observed their passage until they settled. The panic receded like an outgoing tide, leaving him oddly calm.

Only then, with his inner turmoil quieted, did Light lift his gaze to take in his entire surroundings for the first time.

The room was simple yet strange – wooden walls that seemed hand-crafted, with peculiar ornaments lining shelves and walls. 

Small objects he couldn’t quite identify caught the light in unusual ways. The whole place had an ethereal quality to it, like something from a half-remembered dream.

A short distance away stood a modest bed with a patchwork quilt. Beside it sat a small table with what looked like a basin and pitcher. A wooden chair rested in the corner beneath a collection of dried plants hanging from the ceiling beams.

“Is this what the afterlife is like?” Light murmured to himself, his voice still rough. “Eh, that makes sense, I guess.”

Now for the legs. Having developed a system with his upper body, Light focused on each muscle group in turn. He flexed his toes, rotated his ankles, and bent his knees in small increments. 

The process was faster this time – partly because of practice, partly because his pain tolerance had increased. After several minutes of methodical effort, he gripped both sides of the metal container and carefully pivoted his body.

With a grunt of effort, Light pulled himself into a full standing position, his legs trembling but holding. The wooden floor felt cool against his bare feet as he steadied himself against the container’s edge.

From this height, he got a much better view of the room. Behind him was a window where light streamed through in waves, casting patterns across the floor. He noticed neatly folded clothes laid out on the bed as if someone had been expecting him.

Looking down at himself, Light was surprised by what he saw. Blond hair fell past his shoulders – much longer than he’d ever worn it in life. His body seemed almost unnaturally perfect – broad shoulders, defined muscles that he definitely hadn’t earned through any gym regimen he could remember. His frame appeared almost sculpted, with an artificial precision to it.

Curiously, he sniffed at his arm and realized he carried no scent at all. No skin odor, nothing. He also felt taller, though it was hard to be certain without a reference point. The thin, hospital-like gown he wore hung loosely from his shoulders.

Blocking out the pain, Light limped his way out of the metal container that had been his cradle and made it to the bed. He reached for the white shirt and shorts laid out there, grateful for proper clothing.

As he dressed, his mind began working through possibilities.

“So, dead in a car crash,” he mumbled, pulling the shirt over his head.

“Wakes up in a strange house.”

The fabric felt unusually soft against his skin.

“Perfect body that’s not really mine.” He tugged on the shorts, which fit perfectly.

“Mhm, mhm,” he continued, confirming each point to himself with short, raspy sounds.

Light sat down on the bed, the frame creaking slightly under his weight. He looked around again at the strange ornaments, the rustic simplicity, the foreign quality of it all.

“Yup, I’m being reincarnated into a fantasy world,” he concluded, as if this were the most reasonable explanation.

Just then, a high-pitched whistle came from somewhere below—the unmistakable sound of a teapot signaling it was ready. Light turned toward the open wooden door he hadn’t noticed before.

Someone else was here.

With a new sense of purpose, Light got to his feet. If this was his introduction to the afterlife, he might as well dive in. Using one hand to steady himself against the wall, he headed out the door and down the stairs to see what awaited him below.