To die is to sink into nothingness.
To die is to be forgotten.
To die is to float in oblivion, because 'darkness' at least still has a colour.
He can't see, and there's nothing to see. Somewhere far, far above, is salvation. It's the sun. It's light, and warmth, and breathing, and seeing and knowing. It is the state of existing. He clawed for it with nonexistent hands, but it is impossible. He can't interact with it, any more than a character in a novel can climb out of the words on a page. He wasn't a part of that world anymore. And he wasn't alone.
There were others there—millions. Billions. Uncountably many, like the grains of sand on a beach. Mostly, on this surface, tiny and unimportant, algae floating on a grand sea. Stranger things lurk in the depths, though. He could sense their movements, sending great waves through the oblivion in which he floated in. Now and then, one makes a mad scramble back toward reality, sending it straining into the air, only to land with a cataclysmic splash. There's no escaping from this place.
So he floated, and floated, and floated. And then there isn't a 'him', and there isn't 'floating,' and there isn't anything.
Then, there is.
He writhed and gasped on the ground, trying to adjust to the sensation of sight, touch and having flesh that wasn't his own. The room was dimly lit and filled with the stench of voided bowels and blood. Violence, recent and raw, permeated the air.
As he lay disoriented, the fabric of reality tore open once more. He recoiled, just in time for a limb to thrust out into the air from that rupture in space. It was static set aflame, made out of colourless nothingness. Another limb extends, and another. They grope blindly around, snatching at the floor and clawing at the air. They strained, trying to draw their full bulk through, but there are too many of them, and the gap is too small. He frantically tried to crawl away, but that only seems to help them notice him faster.
A formless limb like a grasping claw flickered out, trying to wrap around him. He dodged , but another limb lashes out, and another. Tendrils of nonexistence wrapped around him, a grotesque embrace that sought to unmake his newly regained corporeality. He was a beacon of existence in a sea of void, and they were starved. Soon, his body was halfway buried under grasping appendages, a writhing tangle of nonexistence where one can't even begin to make out the edges. The limbs began ripping up pieces of the floor and devouring at the air itself, greedily grubbing for every bit of reality they can get.
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He struggled against his bonds as he was dragged into the portal. Chunk by chunk, bite by bite, he could feel them tearing into him, stripping away memories, connections, and the very essence of who he was. Friends, family, colleagues, they were ripped out memory by memory. Even his name, ████, was lost, a ragged wound left in his identity.
A tug and he was dragged away from existence- -only to find himself on the ground.
There shouldn't have been enough of him left to do this.
There's something rough beneath his fingers—grass, and soil. There's a breeze. There's light, actual light. A woman was standing above him. “Are you okay? There almost wasn't enough of you left to grab.” No, that wasn't a woman who stood before him. The way their features flowed and distorted from one movement to the next. A face would change expressions or eyes from each angle, or sometimes simply be a blank mask of flesh. A leg might seem to skip from one position to another without traveling the intervening space; a hand might have too many fingers or not enough, both within the span of a few seconds.
It was still comforting compared to the shapeless thing that tore him apart.
“I'm.” he coughed a few times. He didn't feel qualified to operate a pair of lungs anymore. Going to take a few more seconds before his brain catches up to speed on all the vital parts, probably. “I thought I was dead again.”
“You basically were. But you're safe for now.” She offers him a hand. “Can you stand?”
“Mmh.” He grabbed her hand and strained to stand up. The body he was in was working now. Mostly, at least.
He was in a meadow, complete with blue sky and grass. At least, in a little bubble of it. About five meters in every direction, it just ends, a sharp line between safety and falling back into oblivion. He tilted his head back and looked up into the sky. The bubble has limits there, too—he could somehow see both the sky overhead, and the empty darkness beyond. Physics didn't mean much here. The slightest slip, and he would be back in that nothingness.
Something pushed up against the wall of the bubble, giving it a forceful shove. An earthquake shook the meadow, making him spread his arms to steady himself. He caught only the briefest glimpse of the culprit before it faded back into the darkness—a vague, impossible-to-process, colourless form. Past the bubble's boundaries, he could feel them. More importantly, he's pretty sure they can feel the two of them as well. Like wolves pacing around a campfire, they're probing the edges of bubble, looking for a weakness.
"We're the closest thing to reality in here, and everybody wants a bite.” the woman commented calmly.
"You have a plan to get out of here?"
“I do have a plan. With you here, I have an anchoring point to open a tear back to existence.”
"So what's the catch?”
“You have already lost much, and might not have much of an existence when you get back. I would have to stabilise you with my essence. It won't be pretty.”
The bubble shook constantly with each impact. It won't be able to hold out for much longer. And anything was better than returning to nonexistence.
"Do it."
She took his hand and a cold burning skewered his mind. Space reluctantly ruptured, separating and twisting into a tunnel. The flickering woman tossed him through and followed, just as the void flooded into the bubble, smashing it apart.