His eyelids flutter open. The first thing he feels is the burning hot pain in his throat, the raw and torn flesh of his neck screaming as it's exposed to air.
The old holes in his ribs bandaged tightly.
He tries to claw at his mask but he feels panic rise into his chest feeling the scarred and tender flesh of his cheeks. Writhing in pain He squints around patting his surroundings looking for the thick glass of his goggles. He feels wrinkled hands tap his shoulder, turning his head he feels a pair of goggles placed into his hands. He straps them on, they are clearer than his old pair. The clarity of the old man smiling at him brings him some peace. Nearly forgetting the pain in his lungs and torso. Nearly.
"Let me help you up, Horace."
The old man says, the tone reminding Horace of his grandfather. He missed him. The old man's hands reach under Horace pulling him to his feet.
"H-"
Horace wheezes out in an attempt to talk. His vocal cords dry and cracked.
"Here."
The old man offers Horace a cup. Horace gulps it down greedily. The cold bitter water made him burst into hacking coughs.
"Careful, you need time to adjust."
The old man says, handing him another glass. He takes smaller sips, feeling the liquid coat his throat. Rehydrating the long dried esophagus.
It felt like hours with Horace sipping water, the old man watching content with himself. After a few minutes the sickly look of Horace's skin lessened. He looked more alive, even if the difference was small. Horace takes note of his environment. The small high up window indicated they were underground, the bright light streaming in said it was early. The stone of the small room smelt dank and wet. The small wooden shelves spanning the walls filled with tinctures and various other random objects. After some time Horace pats his stomach, his fingers unable to feel the decorative spikes and thick straps. Instead feeling thin leather straps.
"Where?"
Horace says cryptically, unable to say another word.
"Your breathing device was well constructed, reminds me of my work in my youth. But it was fragile and bulky, while you were sleeping I took the liberty of making you a sturdier one."
The old man says, laughing heartily. Horace doesn't know how to say thank you. Instead he hugs the man, breathing in deeply, noticing that he also smelt of his grandfather.
"Thank… you…"
Horace says, pushing each word out with a wheeze. The sound is better than when he first spoke.
"Don't worry kid, the only reason I was able to in the first place is your lungs are stronger than that rudimentary respirator was compensating for. You're lucky I found you when I did too!"
Horace stumbles back, has his lungs healed?
"I can tell that you're thinking that your lungs might be right as rain, but they're still weak. You can only realistically power that machine off when you're asleep."
Horace slouches in disappointment. He'd gotten too hopeful again.
"It should be less of a burden. Now I believe you have some unfinished business."
The old man laughs his voice betraying how old he looks, the sound was of a man much younger. He gathers Horace's things with swift if not a bit jerky motions. He eventually pushes the younger boy up the stairs. The old man opens the door for Horace, shoving all of his stuff into his hands.
"You'll find your way to them, you should stick with them."
Horace stands outside his door, his head smarming with confusion. Was he watching him? He turns back to knock on the door but it seems to have been covered in a thick blanket of moss, fungus, and lichen. One particular mushroom caught his eye, more specifically he caught its eye. He reaches out an arm but its eye snaps shut, the whole mushroom disappearing. He blinks at the spot it proudly stood at. Was he going insane?
He walks away from the strange scene, his nostrils flooded with an overload of smells. He doesn't know how to process all of it. The colors of the world are no longer muddy and yellow. The sky was the most vivid blue, it reminded him of afternoons in the park with his mother. The feeling of breathing on his own now both old and new. Like a long past memory re-lived. The morning sun beaming against his skin, the warmth radiating through his body. He walks around standing tall, it felt nice to just wander carefree, the ground under his feet no longer a reminder of the fact he was still standing. The dull pain in his chest now is nothing more than an afterthought.
"Oh!"
He says in surprise bumping into someone, the woman out with her kid. He braces for the verbal lashing, he'd gotten them many times before. He waits and waits. He slowly opens his eyes instead of the fear, or maybe anger he was expecting. He sees a pair of kindly eyes.
"Are you lost? Are you alright?"
He reads her lips, unable to hear her voice. The sounds of walking around them are a little too loud.
"Mama look! He's got a funny bag!"
The small child she was with points at his smaller breathing aid. Horace laughs a little, first in a long time. The mother fusses with the small child, and Horace takes the opportunity to keep walking. He doesn't take much note of his environment, instead walking around with a happy smile on his face. He finds himself in the same alley that he fought those two girls in.
He stares at the wall, it all comes crashing down on him. Thoughts envelop his mind like the spindly threads of Weaver. He can't return to that place, what would they do if they found out he could talk? What would they do if they thought he could reveal their secrets? The old man's words rush back to his mind. stick with them. Horace doesn't know what that means. He walks towards the pile, finding where the tall woman was hunched. He sits in the same spot, covering himself from anyone that dared look.
He opens his eyes, not noticing he'd fallen asleep. He moves his arms to lift himself out of the heap. He feels a small nick. Turning to see what had cut him he sees something reflect the night sky above him. It's a mirror. Or at least part of one. He picks it up curious to see what he looked like. He lifts the shard to his face, those bright blue eyes look so tired. He traces his fingers along the scarred surface of his cheeks, the once full appearance slightly sagging. His sickly skin looked a little more alive. In the mirror reflection he sees a pinkish red hue glint under the vibrant magenta street lamps.
out of curiosity he follows the trail of dried blood. His legs burn from all the walking he's done in recent memory. It's a long walk, the blood a near constant drip like a trail of breadcrumbs. It stops at a wall, the old pallet of wood marked with the same pinkish crimson. He pulls it aside.