I was floating. Far enough into my mind to feel like I was underwater and my body the far-from-reach surface I swam further away from. I felt detached from everything. My limbs, the cool air tickling my face, the incredibly soft blanket covering my naked body. Even pieces of my identity were lost, buried in a cave underwater somewhere, hiding from me—almost as if to keep me protected from the helplessness of it.
I'd learned to come to this place—where I both sank and floated—sometime during the past few months, knowing that it pulled me away from the pain. That no one could touch me while I was here. Hurt me. That a fist couldn't connect with my ribcage at full force, and a blade could not use my face as a canvas to draw on. Retreating deeply into myself had become an addictive way to escape the torture from both my own colleagues and the elves that had captured me invading their lands.
Was I still in the elven world? I couldn't tell.
