Our senses tell us where we are, but when we lose them, does it even matter?

Whether you're in a sun kissed clearing in the heart of an ancient forest, with deer and other wildlife watching on from the camouflage of the surrounding flora, or strolling along a council estate street in the part of town where people don't walk after nightfall and try not to during the day, the ability to sense your surroundings makes , doesn't it? If you can't experience the world around you, does it exist? Is it simply a tree falling in a forest with no one to hear?

If you can't hear or taste or feel, are you real, or merely a consciousness floating in a sea of nothing, surrounded by a sack of flesh? Does thought give substance, or only the desire for it?

The key in the lock to his cage was turned quietly and smoothly. The hinge to the door did not complain with a rusted screech as he thought it might. Cage doors were meant to creak, weren't they? It was part of their charm. Rather, it sighed with the pleasure of being utilised. He moved away from the sound, which was followed by slight indications of movement. A brief rustle of clothes. Measured breathing. Humming?

There was an abrupt flash of contained lightning, painfully piercing the darkness. It lunged at him, giving him no chance to avoid its jagged spike. He felt the Taser's electrical charge surge through his body, causing him to convulse as his muscles spasmed. The darkness once again, and thankfully, enveloped him.

Again, he felt as if he were floating. Unlike the sensations before, when he'd woken in the cage, he could feel a different surface beneath him. It was still firm, but seemed to be cushioned. Yet he was sure he was floating. It was like the moment where, on a rollercoaster, you fly over the apex of an upward slope and go careening down the other side. Your insides lift away from the shackles of tendons and veins to become weightless for a few seconds. They're then yanked back into their original places to prepare for the next loop-de-loop. Except, this time, they didn't return. They remained separate, not quite knowing which way was up. Even the knowledge there was something beneath him failed to aid them.

Eyes. Open your eyes, he told himself.

He tried to, but something was causing him to resist. Not patches or tape, as he could feel nothing on his eyes to prevent him from seeing around himself, but he could not make his lids separate and let the light in. If there was light to be let in.

Hand. Lift your hand to touch your face, he told himself. Prise your eyes apart.

He tried to, but his arms wouldn't move. He was unrestrained, but his body disobeyed his instructions. He visualised each part externally, to see if any of it would oblige. Fingertips. Nose. Mouth. Toes. They had all forgotten they were attached and were meant to follow his instructions. He was in charge of his body, not the other way around. It was meant to work for him.

Was his body damaged? Was that why he couldn't move? Had he been in an accident and was now a crumpled mess of splintered bone badly wrapped in torn flesh? That would explain his vanished memory. He'd suffered a head trauma, and his memories had fled until his brain was sufficiently healed for them to return. The electrical impulses from the same brain couldn't leap across the shredded gaps in ravaged nerves to twitch that finger or blink that eye.

He felt better. He was in a state of distinct disrepair, but it was an explanation. Not the best, but his reason would accept a reason where it could. The mounting panic he'd tried to ignore subsided. For the moment, he was alive and he couldn't feel anything, in particular the immense pain from whatever injuries he'd sustained. The doctors who were looking after him had done that much and, he was sure, were working hard to bring him back. To mend his broken pieces.

If they could.

He'd thank them, at some point.

What if it wasn't possible? If the damage was too great? What if this was his life from now on? Disembodied, fed through tubes, with no idea of the world around him. His wife or girlfriend, or boyfriend for that matter, could be sitting by his side. They could be there day and night, eating hospital food, dabbing their eyes while they told him about their day. Reading to him. Singing badly. Anything to elicit a response. One that may never come. He could never hear them. Never feel their touch.

Would he go mad in such circumstances? Didn't the brain need input to maintain its mental balance? Swimming in eternity would surely bring about insanity. You could only tread water for so long before drowning.

But wasn't it madness to think this was all that remained? He should have hope. He should believe. All this was only temporary, surely. He would wake up. He'd feel. He'd see. If he was in hospital, he'd heal. If he was merely asleep, he'd awaken.

If he was dead...

No!

He did remember something. It wasn't his identity, but it did prove his mind wasn't completely defunct. He remembered the shock that had incapacitated him. More than that, he remembered it being completely dark and being incarcerated in a cage. Before that, there was still a massive blank eclipsing all he'd ever known about himself but, if he could recall the most recent of events, perhaps that was the hope he required. It could be the trail of breadcrumbs leading back to his Self.

He knew what had shocked him. Enough television shows and films, though the titles, actors and actual scenes escaped him at that moment, had been viewed to identify a taser. It had been used on him, but why?

Talking. He'd spoken. Or, at least, he'd made sounds.

Or was that the other person? They'd spoken to him, in response to his questions, and then been taken. They'd clearly been afraid of that. Knew it would happen. He'd then been woken by someone coming into his cage and the taser followed that. His outbursts were not the cause.

So... Why?

Because he was new? Because he needed to be taught silence was the best option? Maybe. Or maybe they'd just wanted to. Just because. They were obviously somebody, as somebody had taken the other person. Somebody had also taken, and tasered, him.

He needed to find out who.

"Open your eyes."

He jumped, or would have if control of his body had been available. Instead, it was a mental jolt, one of surprise and relief. He wasn't dead and his body, part of it at least, functioned properly.

"Open – your - eyes."

He tried to place the voice, the words spaced on the repetition, wondering if it belonged to a familiar face. If they were an acquaintance or loved one, it could trigger the return of all he'd lost. The voice was female. Adult but not old. Smooth with a hint of an accent he could probably place if he could remember such things. Did it remind him of anyone? No, it didn't. Anywhere? Again, no. Anything? The voice may as well have been silence for all the assistance it gave.

"Open your eyes."

The voice was more insistent, with the emphasis turning 'eyes' to 'ayes'. He smiled, internally, at least. Would have if could have, but might have anyway.

Scottish. Yes, Scottish. That was a memory. A flash of recognition. Not one that indicated any Self, but one of that could mean the gates to it were easing open. The voice's owner was from Scotland. Home of whiskey and haggis. Whiskey was a drink. Haggis was a food. He didn't know if he liked or tried either of them, but he knew them! He knew they came from Scotland!

He could still have been smiling. Inside his mind, he certainly was. Fireworks were going off, lighting up his internal darkness with flashes of sparkling colour. Fireworks were things full of gunpowder lit in celebration. They were invented by the Chinese and made famous by a certain Guy Fawkes. Once lit, they would fly into the air with a loud bang and often be accompanied by cheers. He knew that! Useless facts were still facts. Knowledge was knowledge.

"Open your fucking eyes!"

He really should do as instructed. She sounded impatient, veering on angry. Not knowing who she was also meant he didn't know what she might do. What she was capable of. If he was in a hospital and she was a doctor or nurse, she'd understand his delay. If she was something else, she might only see disobedience. He opened his eyes.

Did he? Were they open? It felt as if he'd carried out the action and his eyelids had moved, exposing the lenses and irises, but there was still only blackness. The woman had been close to him when she'd spoken. By his side. If he had done as she'd asked, he would see her. He couldn't.

Was he blind?

Calm. Remain calm. He wasn't blind. Perhaps it was still dark, just as it was in his cage. Yes, he'd been in a cage, but had no recollection of what had gone on before. How he got there, who he was, and so on. Had he been kidnapped? If that was the case, why wasn't his kidnapper, probably this woman, talking to him? Why couldn't he feel or see?

"Put him back."

Another voice. Also female, but with no accent, however marginal. Older, maybe. A smoker, possibly, from the ragged edge to her words. More authoritative, definitely. The first's superior?

"Are you sure? He could just be slow coming round. It happens."

"Look at the monitors. He's awake. He's just being fucking awkward. Put him back. We'll try again next cycle."

"Yes, Doctor."

The fireworks in his mind exploded again, exceptthis time, it was not in celebration and brought with it pain. Did he scream?He wanted to. Needed to. He heard nothing except the furious crackle of a taserenjoying its vocation. A short snap of sound was all that made it throughbefore unconsciousness mercifully broke off any sensations at all.