Saturday, May 20, 2006

263. The omniscient narrator

He wasn't so sure where he was.

In fact, he didn't have a clue.

He didn't know how he'd gotten there, either, or how long he'd been wherever it was he was. Couldn't remember much of anything from the last month or so. Couldn't even be quite sure who he was, for that matter...

... His eyes traveled a bit and he saw what he was wearing. It felt so familiar: tight-fitting bodysuit. He knew without looking further that he must also have a cape, gloves, boots ... a costume--dark and brooding--a disguise of some kind. So he must have something to hide. A secret of some sort. He noticed, too, that he was wearing a belt. It felt heavy around his waist. He sensed that it was loaded with pouches. He tried to open one, but in the act of trying to move his right hand he realized it wouldn't cooperate. From there he began to catch on that his entire right arm was numb. And his left one. And both his legs.

That sobering discovery triggered the most fleeting of memories: he remembered needles, long, sharp needles, poking into his flesh and pumping him full of ... something. Several somethings, perhaps. A shot to each limb, and--could it be?--several directly into his neck. No idea yet who had done this, or how long ago, but the effect was clear: whoever it was didn't want him going anywhere, anytime soon.