It was as if I had parted thick, gray curtains and was suddenly thrust onto a large stage in front of thousands of screaming spectators. Where was I? What was I doing here? Where had I been just a moment before?
I felt like I had been abruptly awakened from a long, dark sleep—and only now was conscious of my being. I was a man. That much I just seemed to know. I had eyes because I could see the heavy chain-linked shackles on my scarred, bleeding ankles. I had arms because I was being pulled by them. And I had pain—excruciating, fathomless pain in every part of my body.
I moved my head to get a sense of where I was, or what was happening to me, but everything seemed to be such a blur. I couldn’t see straight. The lenses of my eyes were smudged somehow, giving me a distorted view. I lifted my arms but my handlers jerked me forward.
People were shouting—it sounded like hundreds, maybe thousands. I couldn’t make out what they were saying. It all echoed into one long, continuous roar. A structure loomed in front of me, taller than I, and wider. Just then, the fingernails that were dug into my biceps released. The horrendous pain lessened for a moment. A thin smile of relief crossed my lips. Without warning, I was kicked with a nail-covered sole—I smashed headlong into a rotting, wooden wall. I stretched open my mouth, gasping for air, but none came. Simultaneously, the wall fell forward like a drawbridge crashing down, and I went along for the ride. When it hit flat, the violent jarring shoved my lower jaw up and I bit off my tongue. Crimson blood spewed from my mouth and down my throat. I was choking, but I couldn’t call out for help. I grunted like an animal. Thick straps were slapped across my back and instantly tightened, imprisoning my arms. I tried to lift my head to show someone, anyone, what had happened to my tongue, but I couldn’t move. The thrashings of the crowd were louder than ever.
I could smell my own blood. And then I saw the stains on the oak planks, old brown stains, soaked into the very fibers of the wood, forever a part of it.
The crowd suddenly went into hysterics and the noise was unbearable. Above the chaos I distinctly heard what sounded like a dozen whitesmiths running their whetstones down long, thin blades. The sound of metal being scrapped against another object. There’s nothing else like it. Strangely, there was a puff of warm air that crossed the back of my neck, and at the same time, the noise of the crowd ceased. It was as if someone had waved a magic wand and they all stopped at exactly the same time.
Now I could see their faces. They rolled in front of me, several at a time. I couldn’t tell if I was looking up at them, or they at me. People were all around, mouths agape, with horrified looks on their white, pasty faces. And yet, it was eerily quiet. It was like being shut in a cave where no sound, not even a heartbeat, could penetrate. I struggled for a breath, but there seemed to be something wrong with my lungs.
I had the sensation of being lifted up by the roots of my hair and looking into the eyes of a man at his own level. He stared back with a curious gaze. But then his features began to fade. Slowly, the man was covered with a gray mist. The mist became thicker, like curtains, and they closed in front of me.