Our senses tell us where we are. How and who and, even, when.

Their absence renders us non entities. We flail around if only one or two are stolen. There are those who seize this new version of themselves and excel but, otherwise, we are merely remnants of our former selves.

Ryan, if one or two of his senses were removed, would undoubtedly flail.

Given he was without his sight and his hearing, those he deemed most important, he felt helpless. Given he couldn't smell anything, even when he raised his hand to his nose and sniffed it, he felt as if he had been mortally wounded. He thought about sucking on his finger – or perhaps his thumb – to check if taste still worked, but decided not to. He couldn't cope with losing another.

He was sitting on something soft. A mattress. Bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, he rolled onto his side.

There should have been the sound of his movement. The rustling of his clothes. The soft hiss of his breathing between the pitiful whimpers he was sure he was doing.

Where was he? What had happened to him? Why couldn't he remember anything about anything?

He began to cry, feeling more helpless than he had at any other time in his life – probably. He could feel his blubbering jarring in his chest, which was a strange comfort to him. He'd felt the mattress and his legs, but it was the gasping sobs that proved touch had yet to abandon him.

Eventually, his snivels diminished. He tried to remember something from his past, but that, along with his present, was in hiding. The darkness smothering everything around him extended inwards, cloaking all his memories. He was... what was he? Empty? Full of nothing? Both?

He sniffed back the snot running from his nose, jealous of the tears weeping from his eyes. And...

He sniffed again, harder and, hence, louder. Was...? Again, he inhaled sharply through his nose, dragging the sound out, because there was sound! It was only slight, and at first, he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't just his imagination. He coughed. Spoke. And heard! A little louder and a little louder still.

Ryan sat up, listening as his trousers moved against his legs and brushed against the mattress. The sounds made him smile weakly as, though they were coming through at what he assumed was a normal volume, it was only sound. He still couldn't see. Taste? Had that returned?

He licked his lips. Yes, he could, barely. He inserted his finger into his mouth and quickly took it out. It tasted coppery., like... oh, what was it... blood? Was that the taste? Why the hell would there be blood on his finger? Gingerly, he extended his tongue and ran it over his palm.

Ugh!

His hand wasn't covered, but there was definitely an amount of blood on it. He didn't feel hurt, so it was unlikely to be his. Whose then?

Erm...

Blood...

Blood...?

BLOOD!

Ryan instinctively grabbed at his neck, desperate to stem the liquid spewing from the gash in his throat.

Except there was none. His neck was intact, with nothing to suggest there'd been a wound at all. He remembered, though! Being held by the twins. The doctor, Bradley, playing with him and then that woman. The assistant. What was her name? Oh, whatever. Bradley was asking something and, when she didn't get the desired answer, she...

Was there really nothing at his neck? He couldn't feel anything except smooth, ungashed skin.

Was he imaging it? Dreaming? Was being blinded playing with his mind? If she had done what he thought he remembered she had, how could he even be...

Fuck!

Was this death? Was he still hanging in his bindings, with blood oozing from the fissure in his throat, instead of back in his cage?

The cage!

Ryan scrambled to his knees and hurried into the darkness. After only a few feet, he reached a metal barrier, one made of vertical steel bars. He stood, carefully, and sure enough, there was a room.

Thank fuck for that!

So, what the hell was going on? Either Bradley's assault on him with the scalpel was imaginary, or he was somehow immortal. There was simply no way he, or anyone, could survive that. No way. And to not even leave a mark?

So, if she had killed him, why was he still...

Wait. It was the girl. Bradley was asking about the girl. The one who'd kept visiting him. Carla. No, Clara, that was it. Ryan remembered, and not only that.

His name was Ryan! She hadn't lied about that. He was a doctor. Newly qualified and less than a year into the real, working world of patients and prescriptions, but still a doctor. He wrote poetry on his breaks, inspired by the pain he encountered treating his patients, both physical and emotional. His car was old but tidy. He maintained it and preferred it over a newer model because he only drove it to work. Why spend a shitload of money on something that is only used to get you to the daily grind?

He didn't feel being a doctor was anything close to being a grind, of course. The role was something he'd wanted to do since having a toy medical kit when he was very young. It didn't warrant a fancy, fully specced vehicle like some of his peers drove.

When he wasn't working, he walked everywhere. He'd put his wireless earphones in and zone out, listening to... not quite rock... what was it? Oh yes. Indie. He liked Indie music.

Tears were streaming down his cheeks as the memories rushed back into his mind, filling the void as if sucked back into the vacuum created by their desertion. He could remember it all! His entire life. More so than had been present previously. Buried memories, along with their long forgotten brethren, were as fresh as recent adventures. Painful and playful mingled together, and Ryan embraced them all.

He was married. His wife was Brioni, whom he endearingly called 'Bun' due to his phone autocorrecting her name to 'Brioche' in his first text message to her. They adored each other, yet their love for one another paled in comparison to...

Oh, God.

Oh, fuck.

Her! Their daughter! Their beautiful, delightfully opinionated daughter!

He gasped at the revelation. The tears went from a drying trickle to an eruption of emotion. His wife and daughter were everything to him. He could picture them in his mind. Bun was throwing the girl into the air, and the youngster was laughing hysterically.

Bun was his wife, and his daughter was...

The sparkle of a taser being thrust at his chest, filling his entire being with a jolt of lightning, tore him from his reminiscing. The memories evaporated, and his cry was as much for their loss as the intense pain.

"Cycle him," Bradley instructed over the tannoy. "Just fucking cycle the fucker."

"With pleasure," Jarvis whispered.

The twin fell on Ryan, straddling him, and grabbed his hair. Yank up and slam down. Yank up and slam down. Again and again. Ryan felt his skull crack. Yank up. Slam down. With more force each time, Jarvis pummelled Ryan's head into the concrete floor. Even after any struggles ceased, Jarvis continued the onslaught. Parts of Ryan's head were spread around the area, thrown off by the vehemence of Jarvis's attack.

"I think he's cycled," Bradley said.

Jarvis sighed and said something no microphone in the building would pick up. He let go of Ryan's hair.

"Clean up on aisle six," Bradley's disembodied voice said.

"Give me a chance," Jarvis muttered. "Spoiling my fun like that."

"I really don't know how we'll tell you and your brother apart if I have to rip your tongue out, too."

Jarvis winced and didn't complain again. Instead, he disposed of Ryan's remains and cleaned out the cage. It wasn't the first time, and would be far from the last. He quite liked Ryan, though. There was something about the guy he couldn't quite describe. Something undefinable.

"And," he said out loud, thinking he was speaking in his inside voice. "How many fucking cycles can one person take?"

He was well practiced in cleaning the cages, having done it so often, and quite liked the work. Kravitz would take the job occasionally, but he wasn't as thorough. As far as the other, younger by no time at all, twin was concerned, the cage would be occupied again quickly, and could well be needing cleaning again almost as fast. Once the cell was spotless again, he strode over to a blank area of the wall the entrance was set into. He touched a section that looked just like every other, and the section slid to the side, revealing a corridor that lit as he entered.

He was back in the cage with his cargo within a few minutes. The door had closed and, in the time he'd been gone, the mattress had been replaced. The previous one would likely be being licked by the first flame sent to devour it at that very moment. They wasted no time here.

Carefully, as he always was with the new ones, he laid Ryan down on the mattress. Then he exited the cage, locked the door, and left the room.

After a few seconds, Ryan began to stir. He pushed himself up to a seated position and looked around. He waved his hand in front of his eyes, then shrugged, accepting defeat.

"Hello..?"

"Sshhhh!"

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