His feet rested on nothing. He felt no air in his lungs. Before his eyes he could see nothing. And as he groped his way through the dark, or rather attempted to, he could find no hold.
He strained his ears, but heard nothing. He tried to call
(more) out for help, but no sound escaped his lips, and at the same time he found he could not taste anything either.
He felt for sure that here, he would die.
He couldn't remember how he had arrived in this hell. Or anything that had ever been before it. As far as he could remember, he had only ever been here. Here, in this blank space.
Sometimes he thought he could see others. But he knew that was just his mind playing tricks on him. There was no one else here. No one to save him. No one who shared his pain.
Not that he could truly feel pain.
He felt nothing.
Sometimes he wondered if he ever slept. He couldn't tell. Sleep and wake were both black, and empty, and alone. He supposed it didn't matter in the end.
Sometimes he imagined that one day a light would come to him, and tell him that he was not meant for this place. That where was was a mistake, and that it would be corrected post-haste. But such musings were for naught.
There was no escape.
There was only black.
Only emptiness.
Only lonesome.
He wished he could die. But death would be too sweet a relief from this hell. Whoever had placed him here would give him no such pleasure.
No.
He would be stuck here forever.
Stuck in this blank space.
Cold.
Afraid.
And alone.(less)
