The Last Handful of Clover - Book 1: The Hereafter

1.01 Tree of Blood

In the darkness, he tried raising one hand in front of his face, and with painful slowness and trembling, his eyes slowly eased open, with an almost audible creaking.

His hand looked strange. Not like his own at all, but then again, what did his own hand look like? Has it always been monochrome, like an old sepia photograph?

He blinked his eyes, and the haziness receded further. His hand before his face took on more form and substance, even a hint of color. He dropped his arm and saw the ceiling above him, textured and white, and turning his head, he saw walls, furniture, photographs; all in muted shades of shimmering browns and grays.

His body convulsed.

A scream tried to rip its way past his lips, but there was no sound. No air. He knew he was suffocating, and he had a momentary sense that this entire scene—this living room, this carpet, these lamps, these walls—were all underwater in some giant gray aquarium.

What torture was this? Who had brought him out of the Void just to drown? He flailed against the panic and pain in his chest, trying desperately to claw his way to some pocket of air. Launching himself off the floor, he crouched on all fours like an animal, cornered and injured, every cell of his body aching for air, all thoughts ripped away in the panic and pain and fear.

His body took a painful, gasping breath.

The air in his lungs was like a revelation. It was cool and crisp and alive. There was a tang in the air that he recognized, and he struggled to find the word.

Pine Sol.

And then: My mother used Pine Sol, when I was a child... Someone has been cleaning...

And then all at once the thought: This is my first breath since... it happened.

Crouched and trembling, he allowed the breath to come in and out of his lungs until it felt almost natural. He feared that his breathing would not be automatic, that he would have to consciously draw in each breath, and then consciously push it out again. He watched his breathing and counted the breaths. He let it continue, and he felt the panic recede.

I'm breathing. And it feels almost... normal.

He sank to the floor, his cheek against the carpet, his entire body shivering from the effort.

The gray carpet looked lush and soft. Why then did it feel like textured concrete under his cheek? He let his fingers toy with the strands just inches from his eyes. Each fiber of the carpet was thick and wiry, and didn't give under his touch. It was as if a master sculptor had carved this carpet in marble, with attention to every detail, recreating the woven strands with infinite care, making an illusion of carpet so complete that it fooled the mind. Two feet from his face was the back of what must be a couch. His couch, he knew, although the memories of it were still vague. He levered himself up on his knees, and peered over it, like a soldier peeking from a foxhole.

This is my living room, he thought. I live here. The ticking sounds drew his eyes, and he saw the grandfather clock with the swinging pendulum. He could even read the time.

9:08. AM? PM? He couldn't be sure.

Beyond the couch was a TV underneath a gabled front window, but strangely, the window itself was boarded up with plywood. A hammer and nails sat on top of the TV, where someone had left them.

A memory dripped onto him: The sound of that window, shattering with an explosion. Shards of glass flying. And as if that memory was the last nudge he needed, the sepia world around him suddenly exploded into vibrant color. It all descended on him so quickly that it took his newly discovered breath away for a moment. The gray carpet turned a pale blue. The white lampshade looming above him, he saw, was actually a luminous yellow. The couch, patterned in brown and blue swirls. Suddenly, everything appeared surreal and strangely crystal clear to his senses. The colors now seemed too vibrant, as if they were producing their own internal light, the smells in the air became too crisp, the sounds too sharp, like cymbals.