(October 6th, 2012)

Up.

Up.

But how, which way?

Instinct won.

Lights. Dazzling off of the surface. A desperate gasp for air. The sky, above. Or below? Clouds filled both surfaces, broken up around him, chopped into pieces by the waves. Chopped into pieces above by the wind.

Lord, it was so cold.

Move.

He couldn't, he was bound. At the wrists, skin being sliced open by the twine, by the cuffs. Trying not to fight, because he knew about police handcuffs, but failing. Each motion, each jerk, cut deeper.

No, that wasn't now. That was before.

Before what?

Move.

He was screaming. Why was no one listening?

A desperate breath. No, not screaming, not anymore. Another breath, raggedly.

Move!

He tried. How could one swim, in the sky? The weak sun caught his eyes and he tried to turn his face away, but then sputtered.

Water. He was in the water.

Something about that word…

Whose grey eyes were these, that were unapologetic, but not uncaring?

Whose body was this, that hurt everywhere?

Face up, on your back.

Was that his brain, talking to him? Or someone else?

He obeyed. Pain flared. Screaming. No, whimpering. No more energy for screaming. No more capacity for it. That had been before.

Before what? He struggled to remember. Hands, bound. Someone laughing. The sound – memory? – sent terror down his spine. No, no, no, no. Stop. Please. Stop.

It hadn't stopped.

It was stopped now.

Breathe, you bastard.

Again, his mind, or someone else?

Clothing rasped against his skin, clinging painfully to welts and bruises, threatening to drag him down into the current.

No, that was not an option.

There was so much sound, in the distance. Sirens. Yelling voices. Barking.

Dogs? Why were there dogs?

Do it, do it! Shoot him! Do it! I'll be fine!

Fine? What was that? Was he fine?

Angle yourself.

Floating would be so much easier. Just floating until the river met the sea, following the currents up the coast, to the Netherlands, to Denmark, to Sweden, wherever they went. Somewhere far. Somewhere colder.

Cold.

He was so cold.

He'd been cold before, too. Why?

His clothing, removed. No heat in the room. What room? His hands, bound. Someone was laughing, low, a dangerous chuckle. Someone else was screaming. The voice, so familiar. But raw.

It had been him.

This was not the same kind of cold.

No terror. That was why.

Should there be?

Grey eyes, calm, collected, steady.

Do it!

Do what?

Angle yourself. Again. He struggled to obey. Don't fight the current, but don't give into it. On an angle.

You'll have to swim.

No, no, I can't. I can't.

You can.

It hurt. So much. Everything. Legs, pelvis, spine, arms, neck. Maybe his head didn't hurt? No, it did. But from something else. Slamming against something. Something hard and cold. Not from the things that had happened before. He couldn't quite remember, as if his mind was keeping information away from him. Not allowing him to have it right now.

"You're prettier than I remember."

Panic, now. He thrashed, trying to get away. No, no, no, no. Another desperate gasp. Please. Stop.

Glinting eyes, uncaring, laughter, but not mirth. Pain. Hands clenched into fists. Screaming. A voice, cold, uncaring, mocking. Exactly as it had been seven years before. Trapped, just the same.

Someone please help me!

Who was me? Whose body was this?

In the water.

Yes, he was in the water. Not in the room. But he'd always be in that room now. Handcuffs, his own, clinking on the metal. Scoring the paint. Scoring his wrist.

It was darker now. Something was looming, in the near distance. Sounds were receding behind him.

No boats, he realized. Why were there no boats?

Something was closer, too, on his right.

There, there, his brain chided him. That's where you want to go. Go there.

I don't want to go anywhere. The currents to the Netherlands, to Denmark, to Sweden. He had lied to himself. Away. That's where he wanted to go.

Not back, never back.

John.

Who was John? The grey eyes? No. Was he John? Possibly. It was familiar. Something about the name. And the water.

Instinct made him move, beneath despair that wanted to hug the current.

No, he can't win. He cannot win. That was the entire point.

He hit something.

He wanted to scream.

The impact jarred every nerve. He was bleeding, he realized suddenly. Small spots of heat against the cold water. Lights reflected above and below. The sky and the water were the same colour. Was he floating? Drowning?

He managed a groan.

His throat was so sore, so raw. Why?

Screaming.

Had he been screaming?

Yes, oh yes. Every blazing red moment, even when he promised himself he wouldn't.

Not right now! His brain screamed at him.

How was it that his mind could still scream but he could not?

"Hey! Hey, hey! Mister!"

There were shapes, like shadows, above him. He tried to focus, but everything blurred. The sun, casting weak shafts of light. The river, lapping up against its walls. Movement.

"Help," he managed. He raised his arms and whimpered again. Pain. White searing trails from his spine to his fingers. He fell back, face wet now. Was it the river? Was he crying? Another desperate breath.

"Hey, hey, mate, hang on!"

To what? His hands closed convulsively on nothing. Just the water.

Voices, talking urgently. Their words were lost, flowing past like the current. But they were close, staying close. He tried to see them, the owners of these voices, but everything was hazy. Was it foggy? Or night? So hard to tell. What time was it? When had he fallen? Where had he been before that?

In the room.

No, he told himself. No, no. Later.

Then he did scream. It tore from his throat, stamping searing pain across his brain.

Someone had him by one arm.

The right arm.

His right wrist, locked in his handcuff. Bound to his left with twine.

"Sorry, sorry, mate! Hold on, we have you!"

Let me go! Oh, Lord, please stop!

Dragged up, body scrapping against the wall, still screaming. This was worse. No, not quite worse. But new pain on top of the older, harder, pain. The scream stopped when it became too hard to breathe. He collapsed against something – someone. A warmer body, warmer than his own. Arms wrapped under his shoulders, across his chest, pressing against bruises, bite marks.

He retched, and threw up. Someone cursed but didn't let go.

"We got you, mate, we got you."

They sounded so young.

Young. Wasn't he young? How could a body in this much pain be young?

He struggled against the grip, pleading silently. No, please, stop. Don't touch me. His breath came out in sobs, sharp, ragged. Don't touch, please, just don't touch.

"Dude, call an ambulance."

That cut through everything.

"No," he managed, gritting his teeth, shaking his head.

"Mate, we just pulled you out of the river –"

"Phone. Give me your phone." He sucked in another deep breath. Oxygen in the body just meant more pain. Everything hurt. Everywhere.

Do it, do it! Shoot him! Do it!

Make the right decision. Don't be upset. I knew the risks.

"I'll pay you," he managed, voice shaking, each word forced out, blurred but certain. "Quite a lot."

Hesitation. He could feel it, not see it, not hear it. Someone was still holding him, but he could no longer struggle. There was a suspended moment and he forgot what was happening until someone pressed something into his hand. Cool, plastic and metal. Thin and long. A phone.

A reaction so deeply engrained it could now be called instinct made him focus on the tiny phone, all he could see, black and silver, and ring a number. His right arm hurt too much to move, so he used his left hand. It was shaking. He stopped it from doing so as he dialled, gritting his teeth against the effort. His hand started trembling again once he'd hit the call button.

It rang twice before someone picked up.

"C'est moi," he said.

A new voice joined the small fray of others that surrounded him, but this one was more distant, removed, almost tinny. He lowered the phone to his chest, resting it against the arm of the person holding him. He was no longer struggling – whoever was holding him was warm, and not hurting. No more than necessary. No more than could be avoided with this broken body that seemed to belong to him.

The smaller voice, so familiar, female, kept him anchored. The room faded into the background. So did the river. He had no idea what she was saying, but she was there. He was safe. Safer, anyway.

Time passed – minutes, hours, days? How to tell? The voices around him kept talking, asking him questions, but he did not answer. They made no sense. What was his name? What was his name? Did he have one? Or several?

Whose blood was that, all over the concrete?

He was bleeding, too, now, he could feel it. Did it matter? How much blood did he have? How much could he lose? It seemed unimportant.

More voices joined the ones around him, the clatter of feet on concrete, the urgency of people running. The voices around him were trying to provide details, but what did they have? A man from the river. Who was he? Was he anyone?

Someone leaned close to him – he could see the shape, the dark hair, the black eyes.

Safe.

A hand closed over his left one, warm, gloved, fingers gentle as they released his grip on the phone. For a moment, he fought it, but the voice was the same, it was the woman from the phone. He relaxed his hand and she took the phone, moving it away.

"Laissez," she said softly, her voice smooth, quiet, familiar. "Ça va, Sam. We have you. Let go."

Sam.

Right.

He was Sam.

He closed his eyes, and let go.