'Where am I?'
In the vast field of endless darkness stood a light. Dim, yet radiant. A stark contrast to the void surrounding it - her - him.
'What is this place?' It thought, scanning, analyzing its surroundings. The 'orb' moved, left, right, up, down - unless you were it, you wouldn't even know.
'Who am I?' It asked, an existential dread filling its immaterial form, 'What am I?' It asked again, hoping for answers, just one that'll enlighten it of the situation. But nothing, darkness, only the silence of loneliness answered back.
The abyss stayed quiet, almost watching. It felt an 'eye'. Another one. It felt 'watched', but what does that mean? It looked around - nothing. Only it exists.
It 'thought', whatever that could mean. It is a consciousness. An idea, perhaps? A concept? 'Am? What is 'am'?' It receded to a more primal form of question. It wondered, it asked, it thought.
In this endless space, 'it' alone existed. The purgatory? Hell? Death? Or a dream?
'What are they? What is hell? What is death? What is dream?' It does not know… No, it knows, but it does not understand. Like a machine with no purpose, like a child with no model. An empty template, a canvas to paint on.
So it moved, forward, wherever it may be. The end of this 'world', the end of this darkness. It did not get any answers, the questions remain to be. It walked? Floated without thought.
'What is move?' It asked. It stopped, looked back at where it came from. With nothing to compare its distance to, it assumed. It moved. It walked. And walk it did, for time unknown. It did not get tired, it cannot. It did not stop, for stopping means to cease. But it asked, no answers came back.
After an eternity of darkness and questions, it saw a 'light'. Bright, illuminating the darkness around. Illuminating itself. It moved, faster than it ever 'moved' before. Forward. Towards the light!
'Move.' It thought, 'Light. What is that light? What is light?' No time to think, no more time for questions. If it reached it, it would know. If it reached it, one of its questions would be answered. That's all that matters right now, that's everything it needs.
It got closer to the light, its body blending in, mixing, but not fading. It continued to exist, to move forward. Move, move, move. Faster. It 'ran', then nothing.
——
"Son of a bitch. It's goddamn raining." The sheriff, Donovan Galpin, cursed as he spat on the ground, looking at the falling raindrops. The dogs kept sniffing around— the ground, the trees, looking for any sign of a corpse.
"Sheriff, we looked around this area already." A female cop from behind him spoke, Santiago. He looked at her, his sour mood dropping even more. "We make one more round, see if we miss anything."
What was supposed to be a fun, peaceful night turned to a search. Weems reported that one of her students saw a murder around here, by a monster, she said before passing out. He would've believed it only if the said witness wasn't Gomez Addams' daughter. If anything, maybe she was the murderer just trying to cover up.
"Freak." He muttered, remembering that girl's dead eyes, her death stare at the Weathervane when he said her father's a murderer. 'Those Outcasts. Always making problems.' He thought, his disdain for their kind growing even deeper.
"Ya'll find anything, men?!" He shouted to the back, catching the attention of the other cops with him, and some volunteers from Jericho. "Nothing here, sheriff!" "Nope!" "We tracked this place already!"
Still nothing. He shook his head, facing forward once more. They're already near the edge of the forest, any more than they're already at the next town. Maybe there is nothing, maybe the girl was high on something when she reported it. Who knows what teenagers these days take.
'We're wasting time. Let's just turn back.' The sheriff thought. Just as he was about to order everyone to return, a shout from a volunteer interrupted him, "Guys! I found it!" He looked at the volunteer, his back turned to the search party as his flashlight pointed to where he was looking.
Donovan hurried over, followed by Santiago. They had already looked here; he was sure this place was empty! The others followed, and a series of gasps filled the air as the scene was revealed before them. This… is not a murder. A fresh one, at least. The corpse that lay before them wasn't what was reported; not bloodied from being mauled, not even clothed; it looked… off.
Stitches ran across its body, like its skin was patched together to stick. Surgical cuts, lacerations all around it. To its neck, shoulder, torso, down to its feet— like the work of a seasoned surgeon playing games on a cadaver. It looked unreal.
It's weird to call it 'it'; it's a man. A tall man curled in a fetal position. About 6'5", from what the sheriff could tell. He looked around to see if the others were seeing the same thing as him, only to be met with eyes as surprised as his.
"What the hell…" Donovan muttered, speechless. But this was no time for confusion; snapping out of his trance, he took out gloves from his pockets. He stepped closer, about to examine the 'corpse'. For reasons unknown, he walked slowly, his senses alerting him to something more.
One, two, three steps. Nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief, crouching down. His hands moved, centimeters away from the corpse's neck. Just as he was about to check its pulse, a hand intercepted his. The corpse was alive!
——
"Then he just plopped down?" Weems said, looking at the man lying down on the bed, his body covered in a white blanket highlighting his pale skin even more. Some of it, at least. His skin was mismatched, bordered by stitches, scars. An amalgamation of different skin tones mixed together in different shades of pale.
His face is even more bizarre. A combination of different features, mixed together to form the image of a man. He looked like one but not at the same time. The features, instead of blending, appear to contrast one another.
He looked… monstrous. Beautifully crafted, but monstrous.
"Yeah. So, one of yours?" The Sheriff asked, wanting to confirm. Weems pressed her lips together, a brief moment of hesitation in her figure. "Most definitely, Sheriff." She said, a polite smile adorning her face. The sheriff eyed her, suspicious, but ultimately deciding against it. "Give me a call when he wakes up. We need to ask some questions." He said before leaving, not wanting to be around this Outcast Principal for another second longer.
Principal Weems turned her attention to the man again. Looking at him, analyzing him closely. She traced the surgical scars in his head, around it, down to his neck. On his Adam's apple is another scar, like his neck was pried open. She looked down to his chest, another scar indicating an 'opening' to where his heart is. A line went down from his upper chest up to his waist.
Weems confirmed her suspicions. This is not a 'man', of course not one of her students. This is something else. Like…
—-
I- he woke up. His eyes blinded by the lights above. The ceiling. He found himself covered by a blanket, the sound of the wind filling his ears from the open window. Sensations. Sensations he doesn't know, sensations familiar but foreign. Like he forgot, like a dream he could not remember.
The feeling of the wind, the feeling of touch. How the light hit his eyes, the feeling of moving his body - his arms, legs - the feeling of blinking. All familiar, but all new. He looked around the room, his hair swaying as his head moved. From the corner, he found a figure watching him. Golden hair, like the sun-rays outside, her piercing eyes blue like the sky around it.
How does he know? How does he know these colors? The sun? How?
Before the questions could envelop him, the woman spoke, "Have you come to your senses?" She asked, looking at him expectantly. Sound came out of her mouth. Mouth. How did she do that? He touched his mouth, an instinct born from nowhere, his neck, he tried to emulate - an indistinguishable noise came out, a groan.
The woman looked at him strangely, like looking at a specimen she doesn't understand. Like a closed book with no cover. He tried harder, harder, pushing. "Ahh…" was all he could muster. He knows how, yet he can't do it.
The woman came closer, slowly, then she stood in front of him. She pointed to herself, "Larissa. Larissa Weems." She said, each word emphasized, like teaching a child to speak. "W-wi-wee… we-weem… Weems." He said, trying his best to speak, "La.. Lari… Larissa."
Weems nodded, an imperceptible proud smile broke in her face before quickly going away, "Yes, that's me. My name is Larissa Weems." She said. She points at him, "You? Name?"
He paused. Name? Does he have any? What is his name? What is he? "N-n-no… na-n-name…" Weems tilted her head, "You know words?" Her eyes lit up, a new understanding formed in her mind, "But you don't know how to speak." She said, nodding her head.
He nodded, confirming her question. "How is that possible?" Weems asked, even more perplexed.
'He knows how, but he can't.' She concluded. He is, for the lack of a better word, akin to a newborn. With knowledge yet no control over their body. Weems leaned closer, taking his grotesque hand, feeling the stitches in the surface of his skin. She tried not to cringe, to not make him afraid, conscious, she slowly guided him to her throat. "Feel it. Try it with yours."
Slowly, the 'man' did as Weems instructed. Flexing his throat, trying to grasp whatever it is that produces sounds. His incomprehensible groan turning clearer by the second. In minutes, the sound became audible. "Larissa. You are Larissa." He said, his voice deep and clear.
"Yes, that's my name." Weems said as she look at the 'man'. "What's your name?" She asked again, tilting her head, as softly as she could.
He paused, thinking, but no idea came to mind. He just… is. He has no name, no 'identity'. "No." He replied, shaking his head. Weems narrowed her eyes, "Do you know where you are?" She asked again.
He looked around, the room, the 'machines', he tilted his head at her, "Room?" He said, almost questioningly. Weems nodded, "Good." she answered, pausing, "Do you know what you are?" She asked.
The 'man', once again, froze. His gaze lowered to the floor, thinking of an answer. Who is he? WHAT is he? He looked at his hands, his arm, his abdomen - all ridden with surgical cuts and stitches - a puzzle pieced together to form a 'man'. A grotesque attempt at creation. He looked, compared it to the woman's in front of him. Her pale, flawless skin highlighting his irregularities even more. He is like her, yet not at the same time.
If he is not, then what is he? Weems let the man think, maybe he knows, maybe he has a clue. She patiently waited, watching his reaction as he observed himself. After a while, he looked up, his mismatched eye colors looking at her, "I am…" he paused, as if he's uncertain, "human." He finally said.
—-
She doesn't know what possessed her, what kind of poison she inhaled that made her think of bringing this… thing, man - to Nevermore. So close to the children she swore to protect. She watched as he looked around the room, touching the walls, the ground, looking at the ceiling. He's clothed now, wearing one of her coats along with a mask that goes around his head, covering the whole of his face bar his eyes and hair.
'He's like… a child.' Weems thought as she watched him. Truthfully, she doesn't know what to do with him. For all she knows, he could be the monster that Wednesday reported. The one that killed Rowan. But her guts, tempered by years of crawling through the vile world of Normies and Outcasts, tells her otherwise.
"What… is… this..?" He asked, pointing at a molding sculpture on the wall, a gorgon's head. Weems snapped out of her thought, "That's a gorgon." She said, patient.
"This..?" He asked once more, pointing at an old portrait. Weems examined it, the name unfamiliar to her, "Perhaps an old student here. Or a former professor." She answered again.
He continued to ask about everything interesting, anything that caught his eye. Pointing it at things, bringing it to her. Weems answered each one patiently, like a mother hen teaching her chick. She, unbeknownst to her, began teaching him like he's a student here at Nevermore.
Running out of questions, he began to get quiet. Staring at the window, still, through the starry sky of Vermont. Weems watched him from behind, "Have I satisfied your curiosity?" She asked.
He, without looking back, nodded. Everything is so… familiar. Like an old memory he can't remember clearly, or doesn't exist. A deja vu that constantly happens every time he sets his eyes upon something. This world is different. Unlike tha darkness he was in, that abyss of loneliness. Here, there are colors, sounds, senses - filled with magnificent experiences he does not yet know.
With all these wonders to ponder upon, one question lingers in his mind the most - who is he? All these things, all these questions fall short before the great mystery of his identity. "I… have.. one last… question." He turned to Weems, his amber and dark eyes meeting hers, "Who am I?" He asked.
"…" Weems froze, the question taking her aback before finally, "I'm afraid I do not know the answer to that." She said, shaking her head. He nodded in understanding, the question, now that he's think about it, was stupid. How could she know if even he did not?
Weems gaze met his, his amber and black eye, "I do not know who you are. But I can give you a name." She said, her eyes lighting up. A brief moment of silence passed between them, only the sound of crickets and owl could be heard. "What… will it… be?" He asked, accepting her offer.
"Adam. You will be Adam," she said, pausing, stepping closer, "Adam Cain."
"A..dam. Adam." He repeated, familiarizing the name, his name. A new feeling swelled inside him, prompting him to touch his chest. "Adam Cain. I'm Adam." He said, pointing to himself.
"Do you like it?" Weems asked as he watched him recite it over and over. He looked back at her, unsure, "'Like'? What is 'like'?"
"Ahh.." Weems replied. It seems that this will be a long night.