Post by Teo Blaze on Jun 13, 2017 1:18:42 GMT -5
Darkness. Inky, black void.
It was a sight all too familiar in his mind.
For days, perhaps weeks, he had walked, had thrown himself headfirst into the desert.
Into the sun.
Let it tear his flesh, let it rend his skin.
Let him be unmade.
These were the thoughts that fought one another in constant and equal measure as he put each foot forward, as he forced himself to lift each leg again and again.
It did not discriminate, that cruel being that was the Mexican desert.
That much he was sure of.
Man, beast, child, it all went in.
Coming out was a pipe dream at best.
A haphazard symphony of bleached bones on the desert floor the only endearing memory of those who would make the same journey that he himself had tried to make.
Perhaps he had wanted to join them.
Now, however, only darkness consumed his vision.
He had passed out…at some point.
Keeping exact measurements of time in a place where water was a precious luxury?
It bordered on insanity to even attempt.
But passing out was the least of his worries. He had been unconscious before.
Had felt the hard embrace of the earth, reaching up to meet him, to pull him down.
To turn off his mind, to give him that ever haunting glimpse of oblivion.
Perhaps a premonition, more likely a warning.
That was what unconsciousness was to Teo.
Simply a part of life.
But this…this was different. He was not in the midst of a thousand or more screaming fans, not atop a ladder or beneath a swinging chair.
He was alone.
Alone in the desert.
There was no one to pull him back.
At least, that was what he thought.
In his sun-scorched and weary state after all, how could he have predicted Maria?
Who could have predicted Maria?
---
A gasping, haggard cough suddenly echoed throughout the room, as he sat bolt upright, air flying desperately into sandy lungs. He coughed involuntarily at first, his eyes glued shut by who knows how many hours of unwanted rest.
Each movement rocked his mind like a thunderclap, every nerve ending screaming out in agony for stillness, but the cough demanded he move. It shook him awake, punishing him with every convulsion, daggers of ice and fire piercing each and every inch of his body, but still the cough rang out.
He finally lay back down onto the soft surface beneath him, letting his body shake out the last few convulsions.
The desert had done more than a number on his already scarred frame. Almost instinctively he tried to lift his arm but found it would not respond. He tried to sit up once more, but what little energy the sleep had restored was expended in drawing air.
He slowly shifted his weight, trying once more to lift an arm, but it was a wasted effort. He lay, flat on his back, against a soft surface, drawing air like a newborn baby- only he lacked even the strength to cry out.
Suddenly, though, a strange sensation made itself known. A heavy but cool object had been placed on his forehead, and droplets of water now streamed through his dirty hair and along sunburned face. Despite himself, the feeling brought such relief that his mouth curled into a smile.
He lay, soaking in the coolness, the balm that soothed wounds that had persisted for days, the calming feeling of water on a thirsty soul.
Then finally he managed to hear someone’s breathing.
It was all he wanted to do, to simply soak in the coolness of the water on his head, but he knew in the back of his mind that he needed to open his eyes, to enter the world once again.
What would be waiting for him? Had he indeed been carried off by the reaper? Was he now receiving an eternal reward?
Had the desert claimed him as it had so many before?
Fear began to creep into the back of his mind, doubt, questions. So long as his eyes were closed, he need not know the answer. He could believe he still lay upon the desert floor- that all was well.
But he knew better.
He had never been one to hide in fear. To cower like a child.
And although the water felt like heaven’s embrace, he knew that he would have to face whatever awaited him on the other side of his eyelids.
So he resolved to open them.
Slowly, with a more titanic effort than he could have ever imagined, he pried open his eyelids, sandblasted shut, and let the world greet him once again.
And lying over him, light brown hair sparkling in the afternoon sun, pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, was an angel.
She smiled and spoke to him- though not in English, he knew enough Spanish to understand.
Maria: You’re awake. That’s good. Don’t move. You’re nearly dead. You must have…something…lost?
He offered her a weak smile, and tried to respond, though he barely recognized the croak of a voice that came out.
Teo: I…Thanks…I sick in the sun…bad…very bad sick…thanks…
She reached out to the bedside table and retrieved a silver pitcher, pouring crystal clear water into a clay cup with one hand and checking his forehead with the other. She slowly offered the cup to him, and he opened his mouth to accept it.
As good as the water had felt, the feeling of it coursing through his body was a hundred times better. He wanted to ask so much, but he was helpless.
Still, there were worse sights to wake up to.
Maria: Do you…something… you are? Have family? Friends?
Teo closed his eyes again, staring up at the ceiling, responding again in Spanish.
Teo: I…I don’t know much…I am a Lu…
Luchador. He seemed to stumble on the word as it left his mouth. What was a luchador after all without his mask? Only a fighter. He wanted to tell her that he was Teo del Sol, one of the most respected Luchadors in America despite not being born on Mexican sands…
But that wasn’t true. He hadn’t been that in a long time.
Besides, who’s to say that this angel would want to keep a luchador under her roof?
He wasn’t sure what to say, so he simply let the syllable fade. She shook her head and poured more water.
Maria: You’re…something…better, but you still bad. Don’t move. There is doctor coming, but few days.
Teo sighed and lay his head back against the soft mattress, staring up at the dusty roof of whatever building he was in.
Only one thought rang through his head, in between the weakness and pain.
Now what?
It was a sight all too familiar in his mind.
For days, perhaps weeks, he had walked, had thrown himself headfirst into the desert.
Into the sun.
Let it tear his flesh, let it rend his skin.
Let him be unmade.
These were the thoughts that fought one another in constant and equal measure as he put each foot forward, as he forced himself to lift each leg again and again.
It did not discriminate, that cruel being that was the Mexican desert.
That much he was sure of.
Man, beast, child, it all went in.
Coming out was a pipe dream at best.
A haphazard symphony of bleached bones on the desert floor the only endearing memory of those who would make the same journey that he himself had tried to make.
Perhaps he had wanted to join them.
Now, however, only darkness consumed his vision.
He had passed out…at some point.
Keeping exact measurements of time in a place where water was a precious luxury?
It bordered on insanity to even attempt.
But passing out was the least of his worries. He had been unconscious before.
Had felt the hard embrace of the earth, reaching up to meet him, to pull him down.
To turn off his mind, to give him that ever haunting glimpse of oblivion.
Perhaps a premonition, more likely a warning.
That was what unconsciousness was to Teo.
Simply a part of life.
But this…this was different. He was not in the midst of a thousand or more screaming fans, not atop a ladder or beneath a swinging chair.
He was alone.
Alone in the desert.
There was no one to pull him back.
At least, that was what he thought.
In his sun-scorched and weary state after all, how could he have predicted Maria?
Who could have predicted Maria?
---
A gasping, haggard cough suddenly echoed throughout the room, as he sat bolt upright, air flying desperately into sandy lungs. He coughed involuntarily at first, his eyes glued shut by who knows how many hours of unwanted rest.
Each movement rocked his mind like a thunderclap, every nerve ending screaming out in agony for stillness, but the cough demanded he move. It shook him awake, punishing him with every convulsion, daggers of ice and fire piercing each and every inch of his body, but still the cough rang out.
He finally lay back down onto the soft surface beneath him, letting his body shake out the last few convulsions.
The desert had done more than a number on his already scarred frame. Almost instinctively he tried to lift his arm but found it would not respond. He tried to sit up once more, but what little energy the sleep had restored was expended in drawing air.
He slowly shifted his weight, trying once more to lift an arm, but it was a wasted effort. He lay, flat on his back, against a soft surface, drawing air like a newborn baby- only he lacked even the strength to cry out.
Suddenly, though, a strange sensation made itself known. A heavy but cool object had been placed on his forehead, and droplets of water now streamed through his dirty hair and along sunburned face. Despite himself, the feeling brought such relief that his mouth curled into a smile.
He lay, soaking in the coolness, the balm that soothed wounds that had persisted for days, the calming feeling of water on a thirsty soul.
Then finally he managed to hear someone’s breathing.
It was all he wanted to do, to simply soak in the coolness of the water on his head, but he knew in the back of his mind that he needed to open his eyes, to enter the world once again.
What would be waiting for him? Had he indeed been carried off by the reaper? Was he now receiving an eternal reward?
Had the desert claimed him as it had so many before?
Fear began to creep into the back of his mind, doubt, questions. So long as his eyes were closed, he need not know the answer. He could believe he still lay upon the desert floor- that all was well.
But he knew better.
He had never been one to hide in fear. To cower like a child.
And although the water felt like heaven’s embrace, he knew that he would have to face whatever awaited him on the other side of his eyelids.
So he resolved to open them.
Slowly, with a more titanic effort than he could have ever imagined, he pried open his eyelids, sandblasted shut, and let the world greet him once again.
And lying over him, light brown hair sparkling in the afternoon sun, pressing a cold cloth to his forehead, was an angel.
She smiled and spoke to him- though not in English, he knew enough Spanish to understand.
Maria: You’re awake. That’s good. Don’t move. You’re nearly dead. You must have…something…lost?
He offered her a weak smile, and tried to respond, though he barely recognized the croak of a voice that came out.
Teo: I…Thanks…I sick in the sun…bad…very bad sick…thanks…
She reached out to the bedside table and retrieved a silver pitcher, pouring crystal clear water into a clay cup with one hand and checking his forehead with the other. She slowly offered the cup to him, and he opened his mouth to accept it.
As good as the water had felt, the feeling of it coursing through his body was a hundred times better. He wanted to ask so much, but he was helpless.
Still, there were worse sights to wake up to.
Maria: Do you…something… you are? Have family? Friends?
Teo closed his eyes again, staring up at the ceiling, responding again in Spanish.
Teo: I…I don’t know much…I am a Lu…
Luchador. He seemed to stumble on the word as it left his mouth. What was a luchador after all without his mask? Only a fighter. He wanted to tell her that he was Teo del Sol, one of the most respected Luchadors in America despite not being born on Mexican sands…
But that wasn’t true. He hadn’t been that in a long time.
Besides, who’s to say that this angel would want to keep a luchador under her roof?
He wasn’t sure what to say, so he simply let the syllable fade. She shook her head and poured more water.
Maria: You’re…something…better, but you still bad. Don’t move. There is doctor coming, but few days.
Teo sighed and lay his head back against the soft mattress, staring up at the dusty roof of whatever building he was in.
Only one thought rang through his head, in between the weakness and pain.
Now what?
