Chapter Four
James
Idon’t make a habit of sleeping on the floor. It’s uncomfortable and unsanitary and honestly unnecessary since I have a perfectly comfortable bed.
I don’t even drink, so getting black out drunk doesn’t explain why I find myself waking up sprawled on the hard floor. It also doesn’t explain why the ground underneath me is swaying… although, swaying is an understatement. It is bucking as if it has a mind all its own.
Did someone break into my house and spike my sweet tea?
I groan, trying to push myself up, but something is wrong with my hand. It immediately buckles underneath me. I manage to catch myself with my right hand and pushmyself up to a sitting position although I semi regret it because I’m so dizzy the world seems to be swaying.
I try to take stock of where I am as I glance around, but to be honest I don’t even know how to describe this room. It is made all of wood, from a wood ceiling to wood planked floors; although those are covered by a gaudy red and gold rug. The door is wood. Even all the furniture is wood. To my right is a long table covered in what appears to be maps nailed into the wall above it. I don’t recognize the setting on the map, but then, I could get lost in my hometown.
To my left are stacks of crates with little antique looking chests on top of them.
So far, all I’ve been able to ascertain is that I’ve been kidnapped and I’m being held in a thrift store or somewhere that sells old wooden things.
Behind me, I find a large and far more ornate desk, it’s so fancy with carved claw feet and shining brass handles it looks almost like something out of a movie set. Floor to ceiling paned windows are just behind it. I crane my neck but from my position on the floor, I can’t make out anything but the sky and a few clouds.
If I’m not too high up, that window is a likely escape route.
Fortunately, I’m not tied up. However, I am wearing an entirely different pair of clothes than I remember last being in. Instead I’m in a loose white shirt and britches tight enough to make me blush a little bit. Large, clunky boots cover my feet and come up midway up my calf before being folded down. A long brown coat tops it all off. I appear to be dressed like a pirate. If it were close to Halloween and if I had any friends, I might think this is a prank of some sort. But neither of those things are the case so I honestly don’t know what is going on.
The strangest thing is that I have a hook sticking out of my left coat sleeve. I frown and reach over to tug on it so that I can free my hand that must be underneath it, but it doesn’t budge. My frown deepens as I tug the coat sleeve down. I find a black casing wrapped around my forearm, holding the hook in place.
I stare at it, as my brain struggles to process what I’m seeing. The casing is strapped directly to my forearm and there’s no room for a hand to be underneath it.
But… where is my hand?
My mouth parts slightly as I continue to stare. My hand, it’s just clean gone. Oddly enough, I don’t feel any pain for having lost my hand.
Not that it comforts me very much.
I scoot back, finally free from my shock enough to make a big deal about this. I yell at the top of my lungs. Deep down I know that I’m not being logical, how can I move away from my lack of hand?
But the greater part of me is panicking and I’m still panicking even as I bump into the table, smacking my head against it as the ground bucks again.
The door bursts open and a fellow rushes in. He has a rosy, round face that fills me with a sense of trust. White hair and a white beard give him an older appearance, but his face doesn’t have too many wrinkles. Maybe he just went gray early. His eyes are quite small, but his thick, round spectacles seem to magnify them.
They’re also the oldest fashioned spectacles I’ve seen in a hot second.
It’s almost enough to snap me out of my panic. I sit up slightly. “Do I know you?” I ask. There is something about the man that seems oddly familiar, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I swallow hard, feeling squeamish when I realize I have five fingers fewer.
I tuck the hook behind my back so I can try to trick myself into thinking that it isn’t there.
It’s just my left hand… I try to reason. I don’t even use it for anything. Not that it helps at all, I loved my left hand. I want it back.
“Captain, are you hurt or ill?” the man asks, frowning. He has a bit of a stutter, stumbling over the beginnings of his words, but it isn’t too bad.
Really not as bad as my stutter in school was.
I glance over my shoulder, wondering who else is in the room.
“Is someone in here with ye, Captain?” the funny little man asks. “Is that why you yelled?”
“Uh,” is all I reply. “Where am I?”
