IIIwings

I've had this in a notebook for a while now and was shy to type it up because I never really proofread it or anything, so... ;; I guess I'll do that after I post it because I'm weird like that LOLOL. ALSO sorry about the formatting; I wrote it on Notepad.
Anyway, just a really bizarre... no-sense intro on Sort, idk xD I was just bored in math so I started jotting things down that turned into this. <3 Sorry if there's run-ons or spelling errors or whatever. D> Not to keen on making this perfect because I'm not so good a routine writer as I am an artist. It's loose and has no plot and the descriptions emotion and dialogue all suck and--LOL OH WELL have fun.
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A blur.
White...

Like some newborn child being awakened by opening, blue rose pedals, his eyes
opened: eyelids drawing back as beautifully as the pearl-esque shell on hatching
eggs. A slate hue like the color of the ocean blended with metal-stroked, ebony
pupils--cold, confused, and timid with bewilderment.

Why was everything so bright? Where was he? And what was he doing there...? Or
how...
Who was he?

"Mr. Sortsand? Are you awake?"
That was an odd name. It seemed foreign yet recognizable to him, but not at all
like something he was to respond to. It wasn't his. Or, if it was, this young male
had not a sliver of a clue that it really was.
He responded anyhow purely out of old instinct by turning his head. This confirmed
his placement on a bed and pillow--and they were both stiffened thin, at that.

The one that had questioned the other was a well-polished individual wearing some
too-bright robe of--of course--white. To be plain, the entire room was white.
Heaven?

"How do you feel?" No response. Instead, the doctor put a hand to a heavily-bandaged
forehead half covered with black bangs. It seemed about time to change them, because
the patient was still bleeding through the linen enough for this clean man's finger-
tips to stain red in the process. Excessively, too, was the amount if a drop managed
to stroke down an elegantly pale jaw.

The so-called Mr. Sortsand attempted to sit up then, finally come-to enough to
register that things were all awry.
An IV tugged at his arm mercilessly, and a small whimper blew between his lips at this
brand-new feeling of pain. Pathetically, he obeyed the doctor's orders by hand-gestur-
ing him back into his sheets.

Someone else came in then. Interrupting his nonexistent thoughts, Sort heard a lighter
voice grace a question or two before leaving again and, so far, it was obscenely the
single most beautiful thing he'd heard and truly waken up to all day. Come back,
he wondered; but, instead, the nurse's comfort left to retrieve a meal as hooded eyes
searched a bleached ceiling.

...He was already sick of the white.
Maybe he was here because it had threw him into a fit of annoyance. Couldn't the wall
of concrete hanging over him have color or some pattern for him to find pictures in?

Whatever the matter, it hurt just to lie there. Like hell (which completely
contradicted his aforementioned theory on this being heaven). How much more miserable
could this setting honestly grow? Jesus Christ--if there is one of you that exists
--please don't toy with me like this...

This was not a toddler having just been born no matter how much he felt that way; if
he could form sentences in his perplexed mind like this, then he had to be out of high
school with understanding. Perhaps his real age was around 26, give or take. With a
Danish accent and a very, very light trace of an Asian appearance (mostly in those
damned-stunning eyes), he was a little unfairly handsome. Just like any other main
character of a story bound for the worst... how stereotypical. But, aside from that
and despite such a seemingly gentle air, he had two small eyebrow piercings on his
left brow paired with a lower-lip ring a bit right of the center.
He looked like a rebel.

"Here you are," came a feminine voice. The doctor helped him sit up slower this time,
rising afterwords to grab new wraps needed for covering lines in the patient's back
starting to trace in a trickle of blood. Had he not moved, they would have stayed
closed--but the skin's stretching against a graceful spine made them appear new and
deep as ever before. One scratch on each shoulder-blade and one inbetween. They look-
ed closer to fitting the description of identical, perpendicular stab wounds.

As a lightly-sweated chest and stomach were reintroduced to the comfort of unrefined
bondage from linen and bandaging changed then added, he ate the food the nurse had
returned with as if he were a dog from the street. Not so much the manners--he was
just hungry and quick about finishing it. While he did this, it came by as either
white or black luck that he didn't notice how much the woman trembled in seeming fear
from him; whatever filled his mouth was too distracting. She knew something he didn't.

The TV dinner was empty some five minutes later. Bland--but to someone that was starv-
ing, anything tasted ethereal. Yet there was still something in him, unmistakeably
empty... and it was a dreadful sort of miscontainment, too.

No matter. He was again distracted for a moment as people came and went for a word and
to clean while his brain mused uselessly yet intelligently like one Sigmund Freud anew.
And, now, the interrogation...

"Mr. Sortsand?"
That same question...?
There was too long a pause for him not to answer in a European accent without the risk
of being diagnosed as mute, so he uttered, "Me?" It was such a thin voice. His throat
was obviously torn worse than any flu's symptom, but the verbal inquisitions kept
coming regardless as his shaken tone mumbled the responses.

Was it supposed to have been said as "I"...? The id and ego of himself weren't even
known to him; where were the consciousness and history that defined his personality?

Why, mainly, were there so many questions?

A nod. "Yes," said the older male. He then ran a hand through short, brown hair with a
sigh; though whether it was from stress or relief, he couldn't decide. But that was
the same with everything. It was . . . scary. And that was an understatement by
galaxial measures, the feeling of not knowing or being able to grasp at any hypothesis.
"How do you feel?"

"My head hurts," was the first thing he could think to say. Because it was true. Just
as most people could sometimes feel their blood pulsating, Sort could feel his brain
pound with each beat and it had no remedy to his unearthly headache causing all the
more head trauma to bleed. With this, too, he rubbed at the red scattered about his
forehead while pressing pale lips together to show his perplexity at it's warmth. "And
my back."
"I should imagine--you fell from a bridge, son. You can imagine how high that is. Or,
you should remember; I should assume something like that is hard to forget. You're
lucky to be alive after an impact like that. Were you trying to commit suicide?"

His eyes defined shock in every sense at that, wide and still. Still as a paused
image. "A bridge?"
--a few glimpses. But he remembered: the absurd height and calamity by which he fell
purposefully courtesy of people on the train right over the river, having looked up at
the deepening current all around him--and feathers... feathers were a prominent, re-
accuring dream within a dream of these flashbacks. But as far back as he strained to
recall and no matter with how much toil he tried to think through, exactly why those
passengers threw him off was roused in a mist. It seemed something he didn't want to
know, anyway.

There was no need to confirm Sort's thoughts when the doctor could see through those
stunned eyes that he knew. Instead, he inquired after a pause, "I don't mean to pry so
soon, but I need to know what the wounds on your back are so I may properly treat
them. Were you flogged, or... knived or something?"
"What wounds?" He truly was clueless...

A flabbergasted face writ all over one Dr. Wilbur. "On your back. You have three cuts
on the upper part and they look very recent."
To this, Sort fretted. "I'm hurt?" Well, of course he was--he at least knew that he
was bleeding (and mainly by the head he apparently hit against a rock of some sort
breaking his fall), but just how badly, he couldn't guess. As usual. He seemed a
mirror for the other man's expressions, too; they kept confusing either one's brain. What
kind of response was he supposed to give or be expected of?
"You fell, son. From a bridge. You slammed your skull against the riverbed
before washing up on the land beside it, freezing cold, and--I'm surprised you aren't
in critical condition."
"I fell, and hit my head." Just to confirm he'd gathered right.
"Yes. Do you have a concussion, or..." he quieted at the next suggestion, "...amnesia?"

Amnesia. He knew the term--had heard and read about it like everything else he learned.
It meant to forget everything past one moment, right? And that was his case exactly.

But it wasn't something he was willing to admit he might have.

"I ... don't know."
"You don't remember being pushed off the train, or why?"
"Not really."
Maybe if he backed up a little. "Getting on the train?"
"...No. It's just black."
"Then amnesia might be a possibility, permanent or temporary... Your accent's thicker
now, too. Are you sure, you know, that you're alright?"

"How did I live?" Here, his eyes softened. A question in response to another question
only proved how shaken he was, changing topics like that. He simply felt he should be
dead. But it was then that it really dawned on him the simplicity of where he was: in
a hospital, talking with his Dr. Wilbur.

Another hand through brown hair as he shrugged, "I don't have an--we don't have
an answer. All we've gathered is that you fell into the river below, and your... wings
might have helped slow the decent." As he went on, still overtly trying even then to
piece this together, he mused aloud something expected to be unuttered.
Sort's lips parted at the mere word as he slowly repeated it as he had been everything
else. "Wings...?"

Dr. Wilbur took his eyes off his lap, lifting tired hazel into those damned yet bless-
ed irises windowed by thick lashes. Well, shit... Stuttered was his reply: "All of us
that brought you here in the ambulance--we swear we saw wings on your back. But
when we ran down the hill to find you on the bank of the river, they were gone or
something." He cleared his throat. "Look, I'm not insane, I'm just musing; we all saw
them. T-there weren't even two, there were three... and all were different. It
makes sense because of the marks on your back, too, but it's impossible and I haven't
accepted it yet."
A pause. "Wings."
"...Yes."

Sortsand sat forward more to keep his upper torso balanced against hugged legs, the
longer layers of coal-colored hair falling forward over his shoulders. A timid hand
shook just enough to show his emotional stupor as he then pulled his bangs back and
away from his one eye, giving an inaudible whimper.
From the sounds of it, he was a fallen angel. If the wings had been real, anyway--
otherwise, he truly was just one lucky but poor man.

Sortsand was actually the exact opposite.

"Sir?"
He looked over, having spaced off. He might as well just have been an empty corpse.
"Your name, sir...? We have you here as Sortsand; you're first name is very well-known
enough," she shrugged though obvious, "but we've never heard the surname that follows."
The nurse speaking this smiled sweetly. Still afraid.
A popular name? Why was he popular?

He wasn't listening. In his mind, he could not let go of the fact that he might
have three different pairs of flight sprouting from his back like some sort of flower-
ing vine.
There is no God. Jesus, I asked a simple favor of being sparred all this reluctance.
But if you can't spare this water from flecking on my lashes like dew, then I deem you
nonexistent... Who am I?! And about me being shoved off of a moving vehicle, let alone
a monstrous train... why? What did I do to deserve having the fall that brought
me here? Are you sparing my memory or just trying to cock me up with forgetting it? It
hurts. Not knowing hurts--I am confused, I am new, I am old, I am... I am Sortsand, I
am . . .

"Trevinger," he mused. His eyes were closed, hidden behind his hands now to mask the
fact that he'd shed a tear. A tear that actually slipped down the entire length of his
face, stopping at his chin to drop and birth a small fleck of shadow on the sheets.

Sortsand Trevinger.

Black sand, three wings.