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Zappa was having a more and more difficult time telling what was real. With how often he passed out, waking up in completely different places, the random wounds that would appear and disappear all over his body, and the strange, lurid dreams that he was only mostly sure were nothing more than dreams, life was swiftly becoming a mess of congealed nonsense that couldn’t be made heads or tails of. It was all absolutely terrifying, but he could hardly have enough time to think coherently and formulate any plans to deal with it at all. Aside from blindly stumbling around in his search for Dr. Faust, there wasn’t much he could do.
The world wasn’t without mercies, though. In spite of waking up in the woods (again) just as the dark clouds started a downpour, he’d managed to come across a quiet inn on the outskirts of a village. The innkeeper was a kindly-looking woman who spoke in rapid-fire French (he could have sworn that he was just in Britain…) which he didn’t know a word in. She quickly seemed to realize that he had no idea what she was saying, and started dragging him off. In spite of his initial terror, it ended up that she was pulling him towards her son, who knew enough English to act as a passable translator.
After he managed to explain to them that he’d gotten lost (it seemed like a close enough explanation) and that he was absolutely broke, the woman was nice enough to let him stay in one of the back rooms for the night, or whenever the storm blew over. She also offered some leftover bread and a towel to dry himself off with. Zappa may or may not have cried as he thanked them.
(Oh, who was he kidding. Of course he did)
The warmth and privacy of a room all to himself had to be the most appealing. He could barely wait until the door clicked shut and the window was curtained to strip off his uncomfortably wet clothing and make sure that the old bandages weren’t waterlogged beyond use.
It seemed like every time he woke up, there was a new issue in need of fixing. He’d already managed to accumulate several scars from his various incidences. It was getting harder and harder to find a part of him that wasn’t undamaged. If the skin wasn’t scar-riddled, it was almost always bandaged to deal with a more recent issue.
One hand peeled off a long strip along his side. A trail of pinprick marks was slowly fading and healing, which he prodded at with his other hand. Insect bites, though he had no idea where they had come from. He didn’t remember getting bitten, nor did they look like any insect bites he’d ever seen before- they were far too big. Was there some kind of giant biting insect in France that nobody had told him about? And he thought Australia was scary!
At least these were healing faster than most of his other injuries. His wrist still felt sore, even though he thought it was supposed to have been done healing already. Ditto for his leg. In fact, just about everything ached when he thought about it…
Just thinking about all of the injuries he’d sustained over the last few months was making him tired. Maybe it’d be better if he focused less on the pain, anyway, and focused on trying how to fix it.
Last that he had heard, Faust had been spotted outside of Annecy. Perhaps waking up in France had been a blessing, after all. Though if his assumptions were correct, it was a long, long way to get there. Who knew if Faust would even be there by the time he could make it?
Well, Zappa reasoned, he wasn’t going to accomplish much if he walked around exhausted. One night of rest wasn’t going to ruin anything. If he stayed up too late, he’d do nothing but stress and fret over things.
The mattress was remarkably comfy as he slumped down onto it. The blankets smelled a little musty, but at least they were warm and dry instead of soggy.
Falling asleep was easy enough, he just hoped he’d wake up in the same place.
++++++
Was it a dream? He hoped it was a dream.
Zappa thought that he had woken up in the middle of the night, the sound of thunder crashing outside his window. That seemed real enough. Yet he wasn’t sure what to make of the twisting tendrils that currently hovered over him.
He let out an involuntary whimper, curling up on his spot on the bed. It was difficult to see just what was looming. There were three, at least he thought. Every time he tried to focus, their restless wiggling just made it impossible. Perhaps he could make out the vaguest hint of something sharp…
A bolt of lightning illuminated the room. Zappa found himself staring into innumerable matched eyes, all staring hollowly as they swayed.
It was impossible to stifle the terrified cry that came out of him. The blanket was tugged back over his head as he tried to huddle up and ignore the pure terror that was flooding his body.
In spite of the blanket-shield, he still felt the thing’s pincers when it swung down and nipped into the skin of his shoulder. They snagged on the coarse wool, dragging it back off when they finally let go. With his only shield gone, Zappa felt frozen in place under the creatures’ gazes.
Time and time again, the massive centipedes wriggled and bit. Spindly legs skittered across bare skin in between pinches. All he could do was feel things moving against him, too terrified to uncurl from his tight little ball. Each bite burned and itched, but he feared moving to scratch would agitate the creatures even more.
Instead, he merely sat in place, trembling and crying. It was the same position the innkeeper found him in the next morning, curled up naked in an empty room, covered in innumerable red bite marks.