Rebroken, I

Like a mother's embrace, I was given all the comfort in the world. I lost track of time as I felt something inside me drift further and further away; no tears were shed for its departure; instead, relief consumed me. Unrecognisable memories flooded into me in a split second leaving no room to breathe, unfamiliar faces, unseen places, unheard words, unfelt emotions, pointless secrets known only by me. It was like the unwaveringly immovable, impenetrably unshakable, imperviously unbendable structure of cells forming muscles, bones and layers of skin, that I used to refer to as my body was bursting at the seams with life.

I awoke in the middle of a desert to a sandstorm which completely took all the drowsiness off me. I was filled with memories, but just as a computer requires time to process any input provided by the user, I required time as well, which I had plenty of.

It took me 5 years to regain all of my senses. I wondered how a sandstorm could take away my drowsiness if I didn't have the sense of touch to begin with. But I already left the world with the laws of physics a long time ago. So it didn't matter.

I took my sweet time learning gross and fine motor functions, as well as how to interpret the information my brain received.

I realized—when I was finally able to do so—that I was in the middle of a desert that stretched into the horizon with no end in sight. Somehow I knew what it was, why I was here, and what I needed to do.

My first instinct was to get up and walk in the direction of the sun. Because I had no sense of time, I couldn't tell whether it meant east or west. I walked and walked for hours and hours. Crossing kilometres upon kilometres on a path I doubted was straight. To be fair, the path appeared straight; it was my sense of direction, as well as my knowledge that people cannot travel in a straight line without a guide, that caused me to doubt myself. However, the doubt itself was a form of malarkey. Everything would have happened as it was supposed to happen.

My brain was constantly bombarded with reminders of what this place was supposed to be. I was already sick of it. Each step aggravated the condition of my feet, which had already lost any semblance of power, but I could go on. I was even capable of running. I could sprint....

The realisation caused me to sprint without thinking about why it was important here.. I didn't like the pain in my feet—not that they were naked or anything—or the fact that there was no cold wind to greet me. When I thought about it, it seemed clear why a desert would not have chilly wind. I secretly wished it was nighttime, although I wasn't exactly dressed warmly.

I wished for a scarf to drape around my head to keep the sweat off my eyes. It hindered my speed, not that it particularly mattered how quickly or how far I went.

"If it does not matter, then why am I running?"

I couldn't think of an answer to a question I posed to myself.

"Why do I have to run? Why am I getting myself exhausted for no apparent reason? Don't I want to stop and rest if the distance is irrelevant?"

"No"

I knew the answer before I even asked. I liked it. I liked the output for my input in this process. Was it something called the feeling of thrill? Maybe. The label did not matter as much as the thing did. I liked feeling the thrill of running alone in a sea of sand without no clear goal.

"But there is a goal."

When would the goal be reached was also known by me, yet I wondered about it. What would happen?

I came to a complete stop and began to think. When was the last time I was able to think? Regardless, I thought of this predicament.

"What happens when I take this first step? Will I ever be able to go back once I finally take it?.... What is even there to return to? Am I running into a mess by escaping another mess? Whether to cling to the comfort of the known past or take a chance to run into the unknown future? Without caution just let the wind take me where it intends to? Or fight back?"

I pondered about it for a while then realised I needed to spend more time thinking, thinking anything as long as it was something to think about. I sat down to think but got up again as I remembered that thinking can be possible while walking too.

It was a slow walk this time. I did not intend to follow a straight path, so I did not bother with it.

When I looked at the place, it appeared uneven, and while I knew that a desert wouldn't exactly have the flattest surface on the planet, I was thinking about how it never felt uneven to my legs, which were worn out but not as much as they should have been.

The yellow sun was slowly turning red as I considered why and how I was stuck here, as well as how and where I should leave to. The information flooding my brain told me only the 'what' of it.

For a while, I thought and thought, but eventually lost the will to think. So I started running again. The red sun was quickly setting. Staying here at night, drenched in sweat as I was, would be a disaster. So I ran faster than I had ever run before. Despite the fact that speed was irrelevant, I ran faster. Why did it make no difference? I did not know. Why did I not know when I clearly knew it? I had no idea. I was anxious, so I ran faster. I was anticipating it, so I ran faster. I was afraid, so I ran faster. Still, it did not matter, would not matter, does not matter and will not matter.

I finally noticed another figure in the distance, breaking my solitary possession of this location. I could not help but smile like I saw a recognizable face, but that was not the case. I had never seen him before. However, it had no effect on my expression. The smile was wider than ever.

I panted heavily when I got within 5 metres of him. My legs gave out, and I collapsed on the desert foor. It felt refreshing rather than frightening to relax my guard against a shady fellow wielding two long swirly daggers that were clearly not swords but weren't so short as to be classified as knives.

Any rational person would think what I was doing was utter nonsense. Absolute bullshit. Absolutely nonsense. Utter bullshit. Complete nonsense. Pure bullshit. Completely bollocks. Absolutely ridiculous. Pure nonsense. Total rubbish. Highly unrealistic. Totally inappropriate. Completely pointless. Complete bullshit. Inherently wrong. Totally unacceptable. Vague and imprecise. Grossly unfair. Probably unnecessary. Complete and utter nonsense. If they were in my position, they would have tried running off in different directions to avoid any long-range attacks with a zigzag pattern, or they would have simply put on their guard and tried to disarm him when he let his guard down. But I knew what they wouldn't know—or perhaps they would—so it was ideal. I needed rest anyway.

My brain did not register the tiredness my body felt—though how the body could feel anything without brain registering it was beyond my comprehension—like there was some defect in the system. A bug that the developer was too lazy to exterminate. It only resulted in an incomplete program that couldn't complete itself.

I looked at the man. A tall dark fellow with a dark cloak and a cross-marked scar for a right eye, eyebrows looking like they never relaxed, lips twitching and corners bending downwards to make wrinkles,—probably grinding his teeth—veins showing on the palms that gripped the daggers too hard. He was the textbook definition of a villain.

I examined his muscular body structure and compared it to mine. Yeah....I needed more nutrition. But it didn't matter in this case. At least for the time being. Would it be relevant in the future? I had no idea.

After spending some time investigating the enemy and the territory, I stood up and pulled out the belt knife that clearly wasn't there a moment before. In doing so I noticed I was wearing a torn white overcoat and equally torn trousers. The belt had a unique shape compared to other belts. I would have noticed how it was shaped if I had paid more attention, . At the time, however, all of it was focused on the person in front of me.

I knew that as soon as I pulled out the knife, the attack would begin. Because it would take me a moment to remove the knife from its holder while his daggers were already drawn, all I could do was avoid the first attack. I wouldn't call myself a master of reading the enemy attack, nor could I predict what he would do next but I somehow dodged the first swing.

The second attack was a stab at my stomach. I barely escaped as he struck my overcoat, ripping some of it.

"I liked that coat, man."

That irritated me. He had already used both of his hands, so he had his back to me for a brief moment. I took my chance and stabbed him in the flank. He screamed in pain and moved away from me to process the pain. I could sense him losing some of his life. Because my knife was stuck there, I was once again unarmed. It didn't matter, though. I grabbed another knife that appeared out of nowhere.

I dashed towards him. Allowing him even a single moment to heal would jeopardise my own life.. I faked a stab at the head and slashed his palm while he shielded himself.I slashed at that single arm again and again until he let go of the swirly dagger—normally I'd be lying dead if he took that chance to strike me with his other hand but it was completely occupied with my former knife and the wound it had caused—I grabbed the falling dagger in midair and aimed for his head with it while aiming at his ribs with my own knife.

I was certain he would concerned on his head. But I suppose ribs were the fastest he could save. So normally, I struck his head. It only pierced skull by an inch. I left the knife stuck there while I sensed his life leaving him completely, which was not a surprise given his condition. What was surprising though, was that he was still standing.

I knew there was no reason to do it but I was scared, so I took out the dagger from his half-torn head and slashed it again. This time his forehead got chopped in half. Inside the broken skull, I could see a portion of his still beating brain.

The other half dropped from the severed forehead. The combination of blood and sand made it even more disgusting. I thought I would puke at this scene. But nothing truly happened—other than a sense of accomplishment, as if I had received some sort of reward for cruelly mutilating someone—as I lay beside the dead body of someone who had tried to kill me and recovered from the adrenaline that was still coursing through my veins. The sun would set soon on the desert overflowing with the sound of laughter. However, I doubted that the laughter would fade with it.