As Neale slowly woke up, he realised that he wasn't in his bed, nor in the small apartment flat he'd been living in for the last few months after he finally moved out of his parent's house. All he could see around him was a muffled blackness, and the feeling of dust on his skin.
Neale took a breath out of instinct, and started choking as a thick layer of dust and dirt was sucked into his throat. Instinctually, he attempted to try and clear his throat, and choked in a strange, rasping tone that echoed around his ears, dampened by the pervasive dust to a soft, tenor tone. Neale struggled to breathe through the thick, musty air, puzzled by the deep, growling cough that seemed to be his. Eventually, he slowed his breathing down in an effort to avoid breathing in too much dust.
"What happened? I... can't remember how I got here. This definitely isn't any of my friend's places, that's for sure, and - I don't own a basement."
"Where am I? I couldn't have got kidnapped or mugged or something, right? That'd be ridiculous, why would anyone? I don't have any money and I haven't insulted anyone as far as I can remember... though I guess my memory isn't very trustworthy right now, is it? And what's with all the dust?"
Noticing this, Neale decided to check out his surroundings, and see where he'd ended up. Maybe he could even find some help. As long as Neale could find someone to explain just what happened last night, he could do the rest from here. He'd talk to them, some kindly old lady, surely, and they'd hand him his wallet and tell him his mum called him earlier, and he could laugh about this all later on, and forget this ever happened. Maybe send some flowers over for their help. Everything would be alright.
Wait.
He couldn't move. Something was wrong. Really, really wrong.
As soon as Neale tried to move, he could suddenly feel that his entire body from the waist down was pinned by something very heavy. Neale suddenly had this indescribable feeling of both extreme terror and complete numbness in his legs. What felt like jagged pieces of rock were embedded into Neale's thigh and calf, and by trying to move he had the sensation of his flesh being torn as he did so. Strangely though, there was no physical pain to go with this movement, only a rubber-like resistance to the serrated edges as they moved through him.
This didn't make things easier for Neale though. If anything, it made it so much worse.
Neale had never been stabbed, had never even broken a bone, had never sprained his knee or even twisted an ankle. The most dangerous thing that Neale had remembered ever doing was when he had gone out on his bike as a kid and fell against the pavement without a helmet on. What Neale understood at this moment, was that multiple pieces of stone had gone straight through his legs and, possibly, out the other side too.
"HOLY SHIT! W-WHAT THE FUCK IS THI- oh shit ooh shit that's a Fucking Rock holy shiit HOLY SHIT-!"
Pushing himself upright, fighting against the panic rising up his throat like vomit, Neale turned his eyes hesitantly towards his torso, where he could now see through the dusky air the loose debris that covered him. The same debris that was crushing down on his body. The rough needles of concrete piercing deep into his legs. No pain, no agony, just the immense weight pushing down on him. His barely suppressed panic reared its head as Neale manically clawed away at whatever part of him he could reach in a furious desire to be free from that terrible pressure against his legs.
He didn't know how much time had passed, was barely aware of it, the ominous shifting of the rocks above him and the movement of his arms in front of him all that he knew, until he finally yanked out the last segment of rock, a sharp slice of concrete that had gone through both of his feet, in a fit of frenetic activity. As it flew out and away among the crevices and cracks of dusty space, the sudden movement caused a final, halting shift in the stone above him, tumbling chunks of stonework onto his head. They clattered down from above, striking his temples and his scalp, and one even clipping past his ear.
Neale didn't look away despite the danger though, because opening up before him was a slim gap. Shining down into the disturbed air, was a sparkling, shining star, gazing down upon him. He was free.
Free at last!
Suddenly, the panic and the fear and the dread all just... went away, as if it was never even there, and Neale came back to himself. He lay down in the small crevice he had clawed so desperately at, and stared into the peaceful night sky. For now, at least. Neale could finally breathe.
The grand clearance of rock had opened him up to fresh, clean air, and as Neale breathed in for what felt like the first time in forever, the smooth movement down his throat was soothing, even as it rasped and clawed past the dirt and grime. He felt great.
And as his eyes adapted slowly to the moonlight, Neale decided it was time to climb out of the... pile of rubble? A brand wave of anxiety came over him. It seemed his house had collapsed, and no one had come to save him. How could that happen? Surely the fire department would have dug him up, or done something. They were contingencies, and plans and things to save people when a building collapse. Neale remembered seeing emergency services working away after an earthquake. They didn't just leave the people to die...
Soon though, it was abundantly clear why no one had come to help. Before Neale was an extensive sprawl of... nothing. Nothing except the remains of Neale's home. What Neale climbed and dug his way out of was a large, sprawling ruin of a city. The scattered steel frameworks of skyscrapers lined the horizon and were the only landmarks in an otherwise unbroken wasteland of shattered glass, twisted metal and crumbled concrete. Miscellaneous heaps of bricks and tiles marked the terraces and warehouses that used to surround his old and faded apartment block. The roads were barely visible underneath the expanse, and what could be seen was broken and divided by the abundant weeds that broke free from under the earth, the only sign of life. A faded neon sign, advertising the local butcher's services, peeked out from one such pile, a sad splash of colour in an ocean of gray and brown.
"This... This is a wasteland, right? How did this even happen?! Cities can't just go *poof* and disappear! Just yesterday I'd been out drinking with my mates, and now it's gone?!
How... how did this happen to me..? Can I... fix this..? I want to... I need to call home. Now. I need to know what's happened. There must be someone who can-"
Neale froze. He was panicking again. His breath was erratic and he was hunched over, mumbling to himself. His voice came gushing out uncontrollably in some sharp and desperate staccato. This was crazy, insane even. Maybe he had gone crazy? Kicked the bucket, lost his marbles and got shipped to some psych ward for the mentally unstable? He had to be. This wasn't real, couldn't possibly be real. How could it? His home was a fucking pile of rocks amid a city-shaped pile of rocks, with not a single soul around to see. This wasn't something that happened to sane people.
Who could even walk after their legs were smashed into pulp, anyway?
A brittle smile came to Neale's lips. He knew what to do. It sounded stupid, but Neale was sure it would work. If this was a dream, a figment of his imagination, all he'd have to do to fix it was to die somehow, right? That's how dream logic worked. He'd die, come out the coma, the hallucination, whatever, and he'd be back to the world where he had a home, his friends were waiting for him and he wasn't... here.
It was the perfect solution, really. There was no need to panic now. Neale had solved it, and he was gonna fix this messed up dream and his messed up head.
So Neale stopped breathing.