[b][X] - Why is half of your vision so dark? [2] [/b]

[hr]

Nevermind that. Unfortunately, it’s hard to think when your head pounds relentlessly, so much so, that you can barely concentrate your thoughts. You grimace, grunting loudly as you raise yourself up. From what you can see, you’re swaddled in what appears to be repurposed popcorn bags on top of a bed. The room is a wide hallway with several other beds lying to your side and across, men and women in different states of injury lying upon them. Small children scurry around to each bed like mice, carrying bottles of pills and alcohol swabs. 

However, It’s a different story on your right. All you see from your right side is nothing. Just a black indistinguishable haze, as if someone wrapped a blindfold over half of your face. You crane your neck up and then, a paralyzing pain from your lower spine to the back of your head forces you back down. 

“ Easy there.” The old voice talks again.” You’ve just fallen off five shelves. It’s Sam’s miracle that you’re still -” 

You point towards, or try to point to where your right eye is. 

“ Let me see it,” you utter. 

“You’re still recovering. You need to re-” 

“ Let me [b]see[/b] it” 

A makeup mirror swims into your vision. A crack in the glass presses into your reflection like a root, etching itself into your left cheek. All that remains of your right eye is an empty socket, puckered scars round the bone.  It’s hard for reality to set in, like waiting for glue to set. It’s as if your mind is attempting to reconcile with your torn body. You try to blink. You think you’re blinking. You have to be. It’s not - Your mouth grows clammy, refusing to acknowledge 

“ My eye, my eye,” you begin to stammer to yourself like a broken PA speaker, as if you hoped your vision would return with each. You reach out to claw at what you know is an empty round crevasse of pulp and viscera but a crinkled hand reaches out to stop you.

“ I’m sorry, son.” His apology carries the energy of routine self-loathing. “ I wish I could do more. You would need an Wal-Clinic or a Tron specialising in cybernetics to replace your broken eye. Even then, with that damage….” 

He takes away the makeup mirror and you turn your head to the left, to where he sits. Your vision now has become more clear and with it, the identity of your mysterious rescuer. A moth-eaten labcoat covers his emaciated frame with a necklace of doctor playset toys hanging around his limp neck. A thick beard of grey masks his chin whilst all that remains on his head are wisps of white. 

“ They’re still cleaning up the remnants of the Crusade outside. We’ll talk more when opening hours resume.” He scratches the back of his head. “ In the meantime, take some rest, samurai.” 

He stands up and leaves you to think in your broken state. Time passes as you think about how worthless you are as a samurai now. You took a gamble and the gamble cost you your body. How can you fight when you can’t even see properly? How would your clan react?  

Eventually, the fatigue of injury pulls you back into unconsciousness, less painful than the one your fall forced you into. Your mind drifts back to a single moment in the past. 

What was it? 

[X] - Your hand brushes through pale green mist. It’s hard to breathe with the mask but you have to bear it.  The toxic residues of the Bleach Mare would melt your flesh to the bone in a matter of seconds if you took it off. The captain signals you wordlessly, knocking his fist against his elbow, and pointing it to the mast. You stop yourself from replying as your brain fills in the gaps of his wordless communication. You walk towards it and begin hoisting the sails. 

Then, a shadow leaps from the water and lands onto the deck with a fleshy thud. Its leached skin drips detergent that hisses upon contact with the planks. You slowly draw your sword in anticipation as it jumps towards you with a screech. 

[X] - How can light be so heavy? That’s the only question on your mind as you wander the eternal horizon. You take a look up for a brief moment into the cloudless, grey sky. You’ve always been curious about the Gates of Sliding and the Parking Lots, about how it would be great to just take a tiny peek. Your experiences here has caused your childhood desires to wither up and dry. 

“ How much longer?,” you whisper to your guides travelling in front. 

You always know the reply. 

“ We are at the mercy of the Roof, brother.” 

You sign and huddle further inside the cool grasp of the tinfoil blanket, shielding off the baking heat as your feet trudge further and further onwards. 

[X] - “ Again.” 

You remember sweat and blood as your weapon clangs to the floor nearby. You pick it up. An ancient face, chiseled like folded origami, stares down at you in disappointment. Hurt pride and something more, a thirst, wells in you as your trembling hand picks up the pommel, the scent of frosted sugar cloying in the dry air. 

Breathing in, you ready your stance and charge again.