The First Day

I remember nothing.

I awake in the absolute black pitch, and I cannot bear it. My eyes are sightless, though it is not by my hand. When I close the lids of my eyes, I can see vague shapes. I can see the slightest hint of some sort of nameless color that exists only inside my mind and my body. A color that has never touched light.

I, too, feel as though I’ve never touched light. I lay—or perhaps I sit, perched in this darkness. I have never beheld something so bleak. I have never beheld it at all. 

I know not where I come from, but I feel it must not be here. I have seen something other than this void, even if I cannot recall its countenance. There’s no other reason that this new condition grips me in the balm of fear.

I feel for my own body and revolt. Two arms. Two legs. A torso. A head that is filled with fear and pain. This form is familiar but changed. I wear clothing, or perhaps they are rags, though, where they are not, my skin is slick with a viscous substance that reeks of copper. 

Blood.

It has to be blood. 

I hurt everywhere. I am sure that my body has been chipped and broken. Did I fall?

I remember nothing still. Where am I? Who am I?

Aches and wounds are my existence, and perhaps my birthright. Did I come to be, moments ago? 

I feel my form again. 

I have a satchel. 

I plunge my hand into its depths and reach with my gloriously foreign fingers. There is only one item inside. 

[ Acquired Trove of Matchsticks ]

I hold the brittle stem and strike. For the first time, I can see. The light blazes, and I witness. My limbs are pale, clothed in the tatters of a grey shifting fabric. My body is coated with a dark stain, but not blood. A horror I have not yet known sets into my flesh and spreads along my bone and sinew. The color is off. An ink blue and aphotic green. In all other regards, it acts as blood, and I determine it must have come from some creature. 

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

This place absorbs light, and I cannot make out much without a stronger tool.

I am blessed with only a brief window in the light.

___

The little flame from my match flickers, and that scares me. I need this light for the moment, it’s the only thing keeping me sane. Though I’m much safer once the match goes out. It’s a constant schism in my pathetic brain. Should I live in the light with fear, or ignorance in the dark? What purpose does either serve in the end if I die? Better to see for a moment if the result is the same. So I keep the little flame a bit longer, and watch as it slowly fades to the nadir, and my heart is the loudest thing in my universe. Then darkness. That dreaded, dreaded, awful darkness. Then the noises begin, and I am begging for a swift end.

The Fifth Day

What was that?

Scratches? Shuffling? I can’t tell. It’s dark, and I refuse to light another match. I have so many precious few, and I have been here for so long. I never know how long it’s been since the last time I’ve struck the head to emery. At first, I did it non-stop, with nightmares in my heart and thoughts. Then, growing a bit wiser, I began to show discretion. The things would see if I kept myself illuminated. You cannot have the things see. That’s what the old words say, at least.

I do not know why I reference these parables. I have no knowledge of their content, but my mind whispers morsels such as this. I worry it is not my own thoughts, but those of another, come to poison me.

I tremble in the absolute black, and I do not move. I never move. I used to move, but that was before. Now I wait and listen. Staring into the black void, my eyes are always adjusting to the dark that never becomes more clear. Straining eyes and ears is more exhausting than you’d think. Sometimes, I dare to fall asleep, but fear brings me back. I never know how long I’m out for, but I know it isn’t restful. I’m tired. I’m always so tired. 

I can hear the sounds again, and I’m sure that this time it is scratches. Or maybe it’s the slack of a lathe eating the flesh of wood grain. The sound is too close, I cannot risk lighting a match. I feel at my sides. The earth, or is it floor, is rocky but like a sponge. I cannot make out its shape, and though I light the matches occasionally, I cannot get them to highlight the surface on which I sit.

The scratching has stopped. Oh joyous. Perhaps I can rest. No, there’s the sound again, fainter. I can’t hold my eyes open much longer before...

The Ninth Day

I am in hell. I know this now. A hell, anyway. Which? Who could know? Would it matter which hell, if all hells are hells? 

My own mind has betrayed me now. I’m senseless. Bewildered. I do not know. 

I must have fallen asleep for a time. I cannot hear the sounds, save for my heartbeat. And my breath. It is labored, squeaking as I draw the air into my lungs from my nose. I don’t dare breathe from my mouth. It dries so quickly, and I fear some tiny mite or devil might crawl inside. I keep my lips closed, and my tongue idly toys with the crumbling infrastructure. 

What can I do? I can not hear anything. Perhaps now would be a good time for a match? No. NO. NO. I can not waste my precious light. Am I sitting or lying down? Hm. I am laying down. Both air and earth feel equal in temperature. This is no place for me. Why do I stay locked in fear here. I can remember something. It was so long ago, so distant. I can see in my mind’s eye, the little window in the dark. But then I banish the thought. That’s a fabrication of my hungry soul, starved for anything other than this.

I am not hungry, though I have not eaten in so long. Why? Because there is no food to eat. Perhaps if the body knows there’s no food, it no longer demands nourishment. I’ve never known such hunger. I’ve never lived so long without it, I think.

The Fifteenth Day

It will happen. This has gone on long enough. Today--or whatever this moment exists as--I will try to move. I will find the window that I see at the edge of mine own soul.

The Sixteenth Day

I did not do it.