Micheal shuddered as the world around him seemed to darken. His body shook as if it were in the midst of an earthquake, but the floor around him remained still. Mocking laughter echoed in his ears. He swung his head to the side.
"No, no." he murmurred, groping at the concrete floor.
His hands felt something warm and sticky. He groaned as he pulled his head around to see it. Red. Red, too much of it.
"No." he moaned again. "No."
He attempted to turn onto his side, but the shaking overwhelmed his body causing him to curl into a shuddering ball.
He gasped and moaned and shook.
Red. Red everywhere. On the floor, on the walls, on his hands. His hands. Red on his hands. Red. Too much red. Everywhere, too much.
He couldn't handle it. He coulnd't. He had to get rid of it.
Micheal's body shook again. He groaned loudly as he unraveled from his coiled position.
Get rid of it. Rid of it. Rid of the red.
His reddened hands clawed at the concrete floor, attempting to pull him away from the sticky mess on the ground. He searched with his eyes, wandering about the room. Red, red, red, red.
No. No red. No more red. Please, no more red.
He closed his eyes, his arms moving back and forth in a useless journey. He shuddered again.
No. Move. No. Move. No. Red. Move. No. Red. Move. Red. No. Red. Red. Red. Move. No.
"NO." He screamed. He shrieked and cried and shouted and screamed in agony and terror and pain.
Pain pain pain pain pain. To much. Red. Pain. Red.
They were one and the same. Red and pain. Pain and red. Horror. Terror, terrible. No.
More laughter. More tears. More groans.
A mocking voice echoed through the room.
"Oh, come now Micheal. Can't you handle it? Is the darkness too much for you? Have you dwelled in it too long to be able to cope? Oh yes, red and black and pain. My dear boy."
Then laughter. Always the laughter. Echoing, stretching, scratching against his nerves, bouncing through his torn mind.
He didn't want to do it anymore. He didn't want the darkness. He didn't want the red or the black or the pain. He wanted to be rid of it. Rid of this life.
He groaned again and again and again. Consistently growing in volume until it was another blood curdling scream.
His fingertips brushed against something. He grunted as he swept his hand forward again. Hard. Rough. Vertical. Yes, a wall. A wall. He pressed his palm against the cold concrete. He opened his eyes. Yes. A wall.
No red. Just grey. Shadows and grey. He could use the wall. Another shudder overtook his body.
Use the wall? But what for? Micheal felt his leg shift slightly. Oh right. He brought his other hand around and placed it beside his head. Then he pushed.
It was terrible. Pain wracked his body causing his limbs to shake harder, but he still pushed. Horrible, terrible, red, black, no.
He could do this. He could do this. He could do this.
Yes. Yes. Yes. He could do this. He could stand. He would stand.
Micheal paused for a moment. Shaking, breathing heavily, shuddering with every breath. But he was standing.
Micheal opened his eyes.
He had done it. He was standing. He was standing.
But the room didn't look any different. It was still red. It was still dark. It was still hopeless.
He groaned. And groaned and groaned and groaned.
What was the point? What was he doing? Why was he even trying?
And the voice echoing those thoughts. Mocking. Laughing.
"Yes, why are you trying, boy? Why are you trying when you have no chance at success?"
It laughed again. Deeper, darker, softer, louder. Echoing again and again through the dank, red room.
Red room. Red room. Red and black room. And grey.
Micheal leaned heavily against the wall, moaning.
"Stop it." He shuddered. "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it stop it."
He thrust his fist into the wall. More red. More red.
No more. Please. No more.
Micheal stumbled toward the other wall, one hand pressed against the firm concrete.
What was he doing? Where was he going?
His hand touched something smooth and metallic.
Oh, yes, a door. A way out. Freedom. Freedom from the red and the black and the grey.
With a final grunt, Micheal ran his hand across the door, searching for the handle. There.
Turn the handle.
No more red. No more black. No more grey.
The door swung open slowly as another seizure took hold of Micheal's tortured body.
A wave of light highlighted the carnage of the concrete room of red and black. And grey.
And Micheal tumbled out of it.
Out of it.
Into something that was not quite freedom.
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Krista the Key
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