A pitch black sky swallows every direction.

A creature that looks like a man, with skin hugging their bones and ever shifting features, walks in this empty landscape. Every step sending small, black, ripples outward that fade just as soon as they come.

From the darkness behind their head a hand slowly emerges, as if the creature is standing still, and with warmth and care caresses their cheek; it leaves just as suddenly and softly as it came, the only sign of it’s affection a lack of skin and a trail of blood.

There is no reaction to this, just the ripples in the void on which the creature walks, and eyes focused on the distance.

The wound heals.

Time flows. There is no sense of depth or distance. The only constant: the hands and nondescript faces that appear at irregular intervals.

These other shades come and go, all approaching the same way and leaving their soft bruises and peeled skin along with their tender touch

In the distance a small table and chair are made known. Despite being far, every detail is readily apparent. It is made out of what looks to be a dark oak, simple, and squarish, clearly leaning more towards practicality than style or comfort. Small ripples emanate from where the set touches the floor.

The creature still focuses on the horizon, seemingly unaware of the furniture presenting itself in front of them. The distance between the two not decreasing no matter how much they walk.

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A faceless blur unveils itself from the dark in front of the creature, a mouth forms itself on it’s surface, kissing the creature and leaving behind bloody and bruised lips.

They heal, like everything else.

A touch to the elbow, a caress on their eyebrow, a kiss on the cheek. The touches become more frequent. Wounds litter their body.

The creature stops, and finds themselves in front of the table and the chair. For the first time in a long time, they focus their eyes in something other than nothing. They pull the chair back with familiarity, and sit down. Leaning to the side and sinking their hand down inside the rippling floor. They pull back a black, thin, rectangular shape that is slightly larger than their head, and a very tiny bucket with a round bottom that curves inward into a thin funnel, like a small, deformed cake baking pan.

The creature puts the rectangular shape on the table, and the tiny bucket is slot in their right indicator finger. The thin, little funnel inside pierces their flesh, blood flows through it, splattering on the floor with ripples that ring until the liquid is subsumed by the void. The funnel is inserted deeper until it hits bone, and keeps going for a little bit more. Blood no longer drips.

A shade hugs the creature from the back, freezing them in place and pressing it’s cheek against their shoulder. Bruises form underneath the shirt, and the skin rips under where the arms touch. Blood flows, but it does not stain the shirt, it never has.

The shade recedes, the creature again looks toward the empty horizon, still in their previous position until the wounds heal and the blood falls to be absorbed by the darkness.

Now, with the pointer finger they had capped, they straighten their shoulders and with a gaze full of previously hollowed intent, imperiously point towards the top of the black rectangle.

Words form, “In the deep crevasses of the spaces where none dare look, there was a…” the black rectangle is a sheet.

As they write, no shades rip or harm their skin. The words flow in hiccups, but they flow. This is the creature’s only choice, their Dry Solace.

And with every drop of meaning extracted from their very marrow they become less, while their worlds become more.

[This story is only available at RoyalRoad by DrySolace]