It was a rather terrible evening, thought the man as he felt himself in a bed of snow.
A whole line of evenings had been bad up to this point, but there was something a little worse about this one. Maybe it was the pounding headache he experienced. Maybe it was the way that the moonlight shined directly into his eyes, causing him to wince and whine. Maybe it was just the pure quiescence that he was just a little more than passed out in the snow.
Maybe it was because he was just plain
lost.
It took a little more than an effort to open his eyes, and it took a little more to get a feeling about where it was, or more so,
who he was. It was hard to understand what one being's person might be when you're feeling surrounded by absolute nothingness. The man shifted his eyes, looking towards the left and towards the right, and soon towards the moonlight above him. He noticed the substantial amount of trees around him, beckoning him with almost human-like branches and chilling ice-cycles that hung like Christmas Orients. There was so many, he didn't have to look up to see them. They were dark and almost life-like.
The man pulled his legs upward slightly, towards himself till they were at a perfect angle. He ran a gloved hand through his curly hair, and felt a bump from where he assumed he fell and hit his head. Or atleast he hoped that he fell, and this wasn't someone else's doing. As the man pulled the rest of his body upward into a sitting position, he noticed how very cold his back was, regardless of him being dressed relatively warmly. The air was still, and not a single wisp of wind rolled past him. The man grabbed his jacket and pulled it over him, not entirely zipping it up, but not entirely letting it flap lazily at his sides anymore. He brushed off the snow on one side, and soon grabbed the hat off of his head.
He took a hand and brushed past his brown cap, shaking off as much snow as he could. As he took in the vastness of the forest, he realized a few things wrong about the situation he had been placed in. (1) He had never been in this part of the woods, nor was it at all familiar to him. (2) There wasn't a wooded area near where he last remember being. (3) There was a
lot of trees. (4) He wasn't sure that there was a forest near where he lived at all. And lastly, (5), there wasn't a trail of footprints. At
all.
Not a track leading to him. Not one leading from him. It was as if he had fallen out of the sky in that precise location, and had not stirred in his position since this very moment. He looked around himself, trying to find some marker or some form to lead him to civilization. There had been no previous snowfall as far as he could tell, because there wasn't a single snowflake on him.
This was something out of science fiction, or a bad romance novel, he concluded. It took him a while to collect the strength, or the willingness, to actually stand up. But as soon as he did, he felt instantly sick.
The man shuffled his feet in the snow and trekked in a foreign direction, which he gently decided to be East. As he went gently East, he looked back and forth almost frantically. What had happened in the time that he fell asleep and woken up? What happened before then? Whatever happened must have been something intentional, he assumed, because he had a bump about the size of a goose egg. A hand trace it, pushing it softly before covering it with parse curls and some woolen fabric. As he continued onward, he ignored the throbbing for as long as he could and shoved his hands into his windbreaker.
As he continued on, he could swear that he heard subtle footsteps in the crunching snow. He would pause, listen, and shake it off as latent paranoia. As he walked on and onward for an endless amount of time, he swore he was about to cry. He looked forward and he saw a beacon on hope. It was a Tavern-- a bar of sorts. As he saw it, he began to break into a run. He ran quickly, long legs stepping awkwardly into positions much like a daddy-longleg's would. As he ran, he instantly felt about twenty-times worse than he did just stumbling through the woods. As he neared the door, he pulled a staggered walk, his legs wobbling from lack of use. He was much like a newborn doe, walking towards the door and falling on it.
A rush of warmth hit his red cheeks and instantly sent him buckling. He had a headache the strength of about twelve marching bands and a need for some food as soon as possible. He unzipped his jacket and headed towards the bar-stools, where he was instantly interrogated by a local drunkard. The man sitting next to him looked much like a farmer you would see in an almanac from the sixteenth century. He was blubbering something about being a stranger. Something or another.
"Whhhhhho're yeee?" He slurred, lifting his head like a camel reaching for water.
"Ye?" The stranger asked gently, pointing to his posterity.
"Yyyyyyer'nt from 'round'ere, 'r ye?"
The man looked at him and tried his best to copy his drunken accent. "N-Naw."
The drunkard took a look at him and grumbled to the table. He rested his head on the warm woodwork and snoozed away. The man envied this gently, but soon got the attention of a local mistress. She was busty and hefty but seemed as cherry as a child. She looked like she could be Mrs. Clause if she really wanted to. Her dress was a dirty brown color, and seemed to match the atmosphere. The man was a little pleased with himself, because he was too matching the dull and drollery color scheme. She parted her cheeks, and began to speak.
"Wat'er'ya havin', boy?"
"Er," The 'boy' started, taken aback gently. "I'm not much for drinking."
"How'er 'bout some Ginger-Ale?"
"Please." He said, gently. "And something for this, too?" He asked, lifting his hair and hat to show the wench his goose egg.
The women inspected it, taking his chin in her meaty hands and peering deep at the bulbous flesh. "Hmm," She hummed, thinking to herself.
"Witch Hazel," She said, pushing his head back. "An' try notta pound heads fora few days, got it?" She hit him twice on his cheek, before she shuffled off. She stopped mid shuffle, though, to turn back. She stuck her hip out and placed a hand on her side. "Naw, how'd'ja manage a shiner like that, boy?"
The man shrugged.
"Wat'cher name, hon?"
This question took the man aback gently. He actually had to think about his name for a moment, because it had taken most of his strength to even remember how he got here. "Uh," He started slowly.
The tavern maid snapped her fingers, getting his attention once more. This startled the man, and thus, he splattered out his name quickly. "F-Felix. Felix Mann."
"Well now, F'lix, I'mma get'cha that Witch Hazel.
Felix Mann was a high-school student at a highschool located a little Easy from the Tavern. He was right about a few things that he really didn't know he was right about. He was right, there was no wooded area in his town. And he was right to assume someone was following him, because little did he know that someone was. Felix was a string-bean like fellow, with eyes of coffee and skin that nearly matched. He was the color of leaves in the fall, and his red patchy cheeks almost proved otherwise. He stripped himself of his coat, and relieved a soft brown jumper, with a white collar underneath the sweater. Dark brown elbow patches caressed his elbows as he rested them on the table, and he soon waited for his Ginger Ale.
He didn't much care for his cardigan, but he was thankful he wore it on such a chilly night. He only wished he had a little more than the bear necessities. A glove or two would work swimmingly, or perhaps a scarf to bring it all together. Felix brought his hands up to his mouth and blew hot air into his palms. His knuckles were dry, and he hoped there would be enough Witch Hazel to patch up the cracks in his skin. He looked over his hands and dragged a tan one over the breaks in the flesh. He hoped that blood wouldn't surface, but if it were to, he would be ready.
He stuffed a small portion of napkins into his pocket, and sat as his head pounded gently. Felix listened in on the conversations that were swirling around him, and felt like he was a stranger in the way of all these townfolk. He turned to the drunkard once more, and tapped him rather impolitely on the shoulder. The man grumbled, lifted his head, and looked at the man with hazy blue eyes.
"Hhhrm?" The drunkard asked.
"Uh," Felix started, taking a hand and tapping it on the table. "Where, exactly, am I?"
"Eeerm," The drunkard belched. "Yer'in Windomnnnnn." He purred, resting his head back on the table.
Felix had never even heard of a Windomn! He shook his head, and ran a nervous hand through his mop. He was from Chassen! Where in the world was Windomn? This didn't make a lick of sense at all. First the footprints, then the strange sounds, and now this strange tavern in the middle of no where?! Felix got up quickly, pushing his chair back loudly. The entire tavern looked like him like he was a madman. Even the drunkard gave him a look of disapproval. Felix grabbed his coat and pulled his hat onto his head. "I have to go," He muttered to both himself and the people watching him.
But the thing was,
everyone was watching him.
"I-I have to go!" He announced to the entire pub. As he turned to bolt for the door, he grabbed for the handle. As Felix reached for it, he was knocked on his ass by an unknown force on the other end of the door. It sent him falling flat on his ass, his head slamming onto the hardwood floor with a sickening
'wham'. He laid there for a moment, sure he was going to pass out again, when a figure stood over him.