He woke up slowly this day, his vision entrenched in haze, and he was agog. One by one his limbs responded as senses slowly returned to him. Something was missing. He raised his right hand to his face. ‘Crimson’ he thought to himself. His index finger was gone. There were some loosely attached dried, crusty bits flapping as he lowered his hand.
He stood and appraised the place he’d called home until, what was not yet fully realised to him, later that day. The birds did not chirp. The thought’d never struck him but the absence of their song was… eerie. What replaced the music was the crackle of the last dying cinders and the buzzing of flies, busy with their duty to their rung of the food chain. The flies alerted him to the smell. He glanced down to discover he’d spent the night sleeping on his family. Or rather, what remained of them.
If his senses had somehow still be returning to him, with this new information they rushed home. Everything hit him at once and his ruins snapped into sharp lucidity. He dropped to his knees and let out a blood-curdling scream whilst reality sneered at him.
This was an extremely early draft of the initial story I was trying to build. I loved this as a opener. I felt it needed some refinement but I love the tension and mystery it opened with. I worked my story idea around this prologue for close to two years but the story I wanted to tell ended up moving too far away from this point. I might return to this and use it as writing prompt in the future.