Our senses tell us where we are. In a way, they can tell us who we are. How we see, taste and smell. How things feel. Cold isn't a chill to everyone. Pain is agony to some and a dull ache to others. Our senses open up the world to us in ways we will, potentially, never be able to fully define.

Without them, we are lost. We are helpless.

We are alone.

"Wh... What?"

He was certain his eyes were open but, for a moment, couldn't tell for sure. The darkness was absolute. A complete absence of... everything.

At first, he felt his senses had died or the air had vanished, apart from that within his lungs. Was this what a sensory deprivation tank was like? Suspended in water that quickly became nothing, while sucking the world from your mind? It was disorientating. He was floating in the vastness of space and was waiting for the vacuum to consume him. But...

He realised he could feel something beneath him and wondered if it had always been there. He'd just forgotten how to tell. It was hard. Cool, but doing its best to be cold. Metal.

The floor, for gravity insisted it was such, brought him back to reason. He wasn't floating and his senses, though they'd briefly fled, were returning. He was laying down. The flooring gave emotional, if not physical, comfort from its presence. It was something to touch. Something to prove himself to himself – that he existed. He pushed himself up to sitting, inducing a wave of head throbbing vertigo. After another few moments, which he knew could be precious and was wary of losing, the world righted itself and his up and down settled into their properly orientated places. The darkness made them unsure if correct was actually correct, but they made their best guess.

Looking around was pointless, but he did so anyway. Perhaps there'd be a light or a glow. A difference to the absence of illumination that would show the world had gone the way of the light. Grey, or at least less black, against the night. There was none. Bending down, close enough for his nose to be in contact with the floor, he hoped to see a change in the night. A glint of the metal, reflecting off a stray blush that had taken a wrong turn on the way to glorious sunshine. The colour trying to push through the nothing to celebrate its own existence. It was pointless.

Perhaps he was blind?

His hearing still he could hear his breathing. It meant he was also alive. He tapped his fingertip against the floor, being rewarded by the sound of its impact, though it felt odd. Flat. He ran his left index finger over the end of his right, then over each finger. He always kept his fingernails, along with nasal and brow hair, trimmed. Fastidious about his personal hygiene, the fact his fingernails were now a good quarter of an inch longer than they should be was...

Concerning.

Frightening?

No. Neither. He wasn't afraid, not really. Confused, yes. A trace of trepidation stroked his creased brow, but its touch was tepid. He had yet to feel its heat slip into his body and wrap around his nerves, setting them afire. Where fear should have been settling was a numb acceptance. Or knowledge.

"Hello?"

It was an obvious thing to say. He spoke the question rather than shouted. The imposing darkness defied him to raise his voice, and, besides, his voice was hoarse from a dry throat he hadn't noticed until he'd tried to use it.

There was no answer. He hadn't particularly expected one, but hope stood tall within him. He did his best to force saliva into his mouth and swirled it around, using it to moisturise his lips with his tongue, and tried again.

"Hello!"

It was still far from a shout, but was, at least, more assertive. It demanded a reply, though none was forthcoming.

Fine. Exploration then.

Slowly, he stood, steadier than expected. As he moved, he listened for any other noises, keeping his own to a minimum – something that seemed easier than it should have been thanks to those sounds seemingly being afraid to articulate themselves with any real volume. They crept from him, gingerly venturing into the night, ready to retreat at the slightest threat.

"Shit!"

His head hit something as hard as the floor and at a height that prevented him from standing fully upright.

"Sshhhh!"

It was a hissed sound, one that could have been artificial. The escape of steam from an unseen vent, perhaps. Worse, a snake, hearing his call and coming along for its lunchtime treat. It was, thankfully, neither. A person made it. He could tell by the echo of breath carried with it, giving a substance released vapour, or a snake's hiss, would lack. He couldn't discern where it came from, but that didn't matter. It was there. Someone was there. He wasn't alone.

"Hello? Who's there? Where am I?"

There was another question that occurred to him, but not one he could really ask of anyone just yet.

"Who am I?"

His mind seemed vacant, as if an abyss occupied knowledge of self and, really, anything else should be. He could feel the emptiness inside of him, desperate to be filled. Or refilled. It mirrored the void surrounding him.

Why couldn't he remember anything?

"Someone me, for fuck's sake."

Nobody did.

Fine. Fuck 'em.

Returning to his knees whilst nursing his still throbbing head, he reached out to feel the limits of the space he was in. He didn't have to reach far to discover just how small that was. A boundary of vertical metal bars surrounded him, joining the floor to the too low ceiling and giving perhaps five feet each way.

A cage.

A CAGE?

"Where the fuck am I?" he said, though he knew he was speaking to himself.

"Shut up, or..."

A different voice. Softer. More feminine. Cut off from whatever it was going to say by the loud sound of locks being unlocked and a large, apparently stiff lever being pushed, followed by the tired hinges of a heavy door opening.

Where was it coming from? Which direction? It seemed to come from all around him, but that was impossible. It had to have a specific location.

Before he could think enough to call out to whomever had entered whatever room he was in...

Smaller locks and a lighter door. A scuffle. Something... someone being dragged, their feet ineffectually kicking out.

"No! No! It wasn't my fault. Please! It was him! Someone over there! Please! I didn't..."

A cry of pain following something – or, again, someone – being struck.

"No! Please let me go. Pl..."

Another strike, cutting off the voice, and another cry, this time followed by crying.

The smaller door was locked, and the someone was dragged away. The sound receded a fair distance, before the larger door was pulled closed. It took effort and grated as it moved across the floor. Keys turned in locks.

Silence.

Then, from another direction, a hushed sobbing, so quiet it might have been imagination.

He move, for to do so risked making a sound. To make sound, it appeared, brought them.

And took you.

No wonder he had been told to be quiet.

He felt like sobbing, too. He was responsible for the attack on the other person. He'd been robbed of his senses and identity. Of his reality, whatever that had been. His morals, whatever they might be, remained.

With his only movement that of his teeth chewing his lower lip, he was otherwise still. His breathing was soft and shallow and through his nose. After a few minutes, he opened and closed his eyes in an evenly timed rhythm, trying to see if he could identify any change in his surroundings from one view to the next. The fact there was none didn't stop his attempts. He was doing something. If not, all he could do was wait, and he didn't think he was the sort to just do that.

His lack of a memory should, he felt, have bothered him more. He not only couldn't remember where he was or how he found himself to be there, he didn't know his name. His age. His ethnicity, hair or eye colour. What he had for breakfast that morning or if he preferred tea to coffee. Sugar to sweetener to none, because he was sweet enough. Facts large and small about himself were as absent as the light. It was a worry, but he wasn't overly frantic about it.

Was that normal? Shouldn't he have been, at the least, alarmed?

Did people lose their memory and simply analyse the fact, or did they panic? Identity gave meaning to oneself. An insight into purpose, even if that purpose was purely to sit in front of a television, watching reruns of daytime property, chat and cookery shows, whilst skimming through Facebook and eating takeout burgers. Identity told you, though in a way that was little more than a whisper in your ear you could only hear if you closed your eyes, held your breath and the world followed suit, who you were in every way.

It was more than just a passport or driving license. It was the essence of the person. The parts even they were not entirely aware of. His had been wiped clean, like an office whiteboard being prepared for the start of a meeting. Did he work in an office? Did he work at all?

He stopped the closing and opening of his eyes and allowed them to take whichever state they liked. Open seemed to be preferred, with the occasional blink to break up the monotony of staring at nothing. He raised his hand, though it was effectively invisible, and scratched his nose. He didn't have an itch, he just craved sensation. He sniffed the air. Licked his lips. Trivial things to make his mind work at exploring the smaller pieces of himself. Reflex and taste and the ability to perform simple tasks. To know simple things. Nose. Scratch. Lips. Expanding on this, he noted the various parts of his body had names he could recall easily. His arms connected to his shoulders. His hands had fingers and fingertips and fingernails.

Why was he thinking about knee bones and hip bones connecting to each other with a weird tune?

His mind was, apparently, far from blank. It was chock full of information about the human body and the wider world.

But, where he was concerned, though he was not concerned, there was a void.

He felt as if he were viewing himself from a short distance away. Not floating apart, travelling astrally, but more in the manner of an observer. A bird watcher seeing a crow land and peck the ground and wondering how long it would be until it flew away again. How long would this self-ignorance last? Shouldn't it, he, be creeping back in?

In fact, had he ever known?

No, that was ridiculous. At the potential age he was, and he didn't appear to be anything close to either a child or pensioner, he must have lived a life full of names and facts. Relationships, perhaps. Children? A partner? He had existed and, with existence, came experience.

Had he always faced issues with this cold assessment? Was he not fazed about anything, instead taking the time to contemplate problems to find a solution, rather than spinning around, hoping he'd chance upon clarification if he waved his hands, metaphorically, wildly enough?

He was pleased he was calm. Panic wouldn't alleviate his situation. It wouldn't cause him to remember who he was, what he was doing, or how he arrived there. It couldn't free him from his confines or reveal his jailer. Hence, it was fruitless.

He accepted the darkness within as an extension of that without. If he waited, something would happen. He would receive illumination, either physically or mentally.

The temptation to sob was gone. He didn't know what had happened earlier, although he surmised someone had been taken away, possibly – or probably - because of his own outburst. He was sorry for that. When he had the chance, he would say as much to the relevant person.

Eventually, he must have fallen asleep, because a key in the lock to his own cage woke him.