[He awakens to the feeling of dry grass against his hands and face, scratchy and irritating, and despite the nausea and the pain all over his body he lifts his head, looking around.
It isn't familiar. He has no idea where he is, and he slowly shifts to sit up as he glances around in confusion. It's a baseball diamond, he knows that much; that's about all he does know.
He looks down, trying to get his bearings, and suddenly his head spins because there's red, everywhere. All over his hands and his clothes and it's mixed with something thick and black and he feels the urge to throw up, though that very urge seems wrong at the same time, like it shouldn't be how he reacts. He wonders why, for a moment--how should he react?--and then realizes with a horrified shock that he doesn't know.
As he tries to look back in his mind, to call on experience and memory, there's nothing. A solid, impenetrable wall stands between him and anything more than a few seconds ago, and the heavy feeling of doom prevents him from even trying to look that way again. There is one thing he's suddenly very certain of: he doesn't want to know what's behind that wall.
So instead he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, and it's only as he stands that he takes a breath and realizes he wasn't breathing before. Surely the wind had gotten knocked out of him and that was all. He must have hit the ground hard or something, judging by how sick he felt, and maybe that was what happened to his memory.
He didn't know how or why, but he knew he should go indoors or at least get out of this field, and so slowly he began forward toward the buildings not far away. One of them had to have someone who could help him.]
Baseball field | Noon on the 7th | Reserved for Mary
It isn't familiar. He has no idea where he is, and he slowly shifts to sit up as he glances around in confusion. It's a baseball diamond, he knows that much; that's about all he does know.
He looks down, trying to get his bearings, and suddenly his head spins because there's red, everywhere. All over his hands and his clothes and it's mixed with something thick and black and he feels the urge to throw up, though that very urge seems wrong at the same time, like it shouldn't be how he reacts. He wonders why, for a moment--how should he react?--and then realizes with a horrified shock that he doesn't know.
As he tries to look back in his mind, to call on experience and memory, there's nothing. A solid, impenetrable wall stands between him and anything more than a few seconds ago, and the heavy feeling of doom prevents him from even trying to look that way again. There is one thing he's suddenly very certain of: he doesn't want to know what's behind that wall.
So instead he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, and it's only as he stands that he takes a breath and realizes he wasn't breathing before. Surely the wind had gotten knocked out of him and that was all. He must have hit the ground hard or something, judging by how sick he felt, and maybe that was what happened to his memory.
He didn't know how or why, but he knew he should go indoors or at least get out of this field, and so slowly he began forward toward the buildings not far away. One of them had to have someone who could help him.]