Lost

Every step he took kicked up a small cloud of dust. He wore a long-sleeved hoodie, both hands buried in its kangaroo pocket. Every so often, he pulled out his right hand and rubbed his stomach for a few seconds, as though he could soothe the hunger gnawing at him, before slipping it back inside.

He hadn’t the faintest idea where he was. One thing was certain, however: very few people seemed to live in the area. He had been walking for a couple of hours, and in all that time he had passed only 3 people, a few shuttered shops and scattered houses, most of them separated by thick clusters of trees and bushes.

At first, he had tried to get help, knocking on the gates of several houses. Only a few people had answered. Each time, the gate had opened just far enough for someone to see him before being shut almost immediately. The people he encountered on the road moved further away as soon as they came close enough to make out his appearance.

"That might have something to do with the fact that I look like a madman who’s been sleeping rough," he thought.

He could hardly blame them. His hoodie was torn at the shoulder, and there was dried blood on his forehead, beneath his nose and along one side of his neck. He had no idea how it had got there, or whether all of it belonged to him.

Everything he wore was black, or at least it had once been. With so much dust clinging to him, he doubted anyone could tell.

He had searched his pockets several times since waking. There was no phone, no wallet and nothing that bore his name. The only thing he had found was a small brass key tucked inside the front pocket of his trousers. It was old and slightly rusted, and he had no idea what it opened. Still, he had held on to it. It was the only object he possessed and, for reasons he could not explain, he felt certain it mattered.

Once again, he pulled his right hand from his pocket, but this time he pressed it to his throat. He moved his tongue around his mouth and sucked at the insides of his cheeks, trying to produce enough saliva to swallow. It was a poor substitute for water, and he knew it would not help for long.

He needed water far more urgently than food.

He ran his fingers over his cracked, parched lips, resisting the urge to lick them. He had to conserve what little moisture he had left.

The dry air and ever-present dust told him that the harmattan had set in, but that knowledge was of little use. Where was he? Why was he dressed like this? Why was there blood on his clothes?

And, most importantly, who was he?

All he could remember was waking near the edge of a forest with a searing pain in his head and a desperate need for food and water. Panic had seized him at first. He had stumbled about without direction, scanning his surroundings as he tried to make sense of his predicament. Eventually, he had managed to steady himself and search for a way out of the forest.

Once he reached the road, however, he still had no idea what to do next. All he knew was that he needed water, food and somewhere safe enough to work out what had happened to him.

Just ahead, he spotted a tap fixed to the outer wall of a compound.

Excitement surged through him.

He quickened his pace, moving faster than he had at any point since waking, and hurried towards it. He twisted the handle with his right hand and held his left beneath the spout.

Nothing came out.

He turned the handle again.

Still nothing.

Frustration flared inside him. He gripped the tap with both hands and wrenched it. The corroded fitting gave way, and the tap broke free from the wall.

He stared at it in disbelief.

"I shouldn’t have done that!"

He glanced from side to side to make sure no one had seen him, then placed the broken tap gently on the ground and began to walk away.

A low growl sounded behind him.

An engine.

He turned and saw a car approaching in the distance.

Hope rose in him. Perhaps the people inside could help. Perhaps they could tell him where he was, take him to a hospital or, at the very least, give him some water.

Then a sharp pain tore through his head.

He staggered and pressed a hand to his temple.

Images flashed through his mind.

The same car.

A hand closing around his arm.

Two figures in the front seats.

A cloth forced over his mouth.

Darkness.

He lowered his hand and stared at the approaching vehicle. There were two people inside, just as there had been in his memory.

Fear tightened around his chest.

"I was kidnapped," he whispered.

The car continued towards him.

As it drew closer, the passenger leant forward, his face becoming clearer through the windscreen.

Recognition struck him with such force that his knees nearly gave way.

They were the ones who had taken him.

The passenger wound down his window and shouted a name.

He did not recognise it, yet something deep within him responded to it. Something told him that the name belonged to him.

The car accelerated, and so did he.