A slight noise of a mind breaking, as the air gathered, turning into ice-like blades pressed into human flesh, peeling it slowly. A wave of shame flashed like light.
It passed through the face of a young man as his eyes gazed into the darkness of the void. His mind ruptured and scattered into fragments. His body wrapped in light paper, his bones breaking slowly and softly at the same time, regenerating in a strange way. The echoes of death's smell passed through the entire void. His mind was hollow and empty. He bent down as his blood touched the dark waters, revealing his reflection.
His gaze clung to it, trying to piece together what he was feeling. His mind fractured into different thoughts.
Finally, he stood, placing one hand on his right leg as he raised himself. Every step felt like he was breathing his last; every movement drew him closer to death as he made his way toward the light stretching ahead in the void, shining on the other side of the dark, empty expanse.
The cold air clung to his body, breaking his bones with each step. His mind fractured, his head scattered. His body bore an inky symbol, like a tattoo, on his right hand, wrapping like a snake. The symbol reflected a dragon, stretching from his hand to his shoulder. It traveled across his entire right hand before disappearing, forming a strange new sign.
The inky dragon-like symbol of destiny vanished, replaced by a different one.
On his back, a strange root-like tattoo grew, like a tree sprouting on his skin, waiting to complete its transformation.
As he continued, his feet shook, his mind fracturing. His body wrapped in paper, his bones cracking into countless pieces. The cold air gathered like blades, freezing inside his bones.
Tap, tap. He moved slowly, dragging one leg before the other left, then right as he tried to reach the light. Finally, his hand touched and trembled within the bright glow.
Then came the sound of glass cracking.
A young man awoke from sleep, his eyes wide with fear. He swallowed, lingering in panic, his gaze strong and filled with terror.
He looked around, breathing slowly. Beads of sweat gathered along the veins of his forehead, dripping from his cheeks and onto the pillows. He swallowed again.
His eyes scanned the room before he reached for anything. His left hand moved unconsciously, hitting the table beside him.
A glass cup fell and shattered on the ground, the sound echoing through the room.
His gaze followed the fragments to the floor, then to his legs.
He stood gently, holding the table for support, placing one foot, then the other.
He looked around there was no one.
Inside the room, his feet shook. His body trembled with fear. Slowly, his mind began to regenerate, memories returning from the fragments scattered within him.
His breath was slow, calm yet shaking, filled with fear and loss for words. He spoke hoarsely:
"All I remember… I was being chased by three men… then I entered a building…"
What am I doing here, in a room that looks like a hospital?
He walked slowly, feet shaking, trying to recall the last moments of his life. He held his head, scratching at his hair, clutching it tightly in frustration. He couldn't remember anything. Then he turned to the other side of the room.
On a table, a white top and black jeans of a suit were neatly folded and arranged properly. Food was also placed carefully.
He walked toward the table, legs shaking, taking one step at a time. Then he fell.
His eyes closed against the stone floor. He looked at the ground, then at the legs of the table. He stretched his hand, gripping a table leg, lifting one leg, then the other. Holding the table, he stood.
He grabbed the white top and put it on quickly, hands shaking. Without taking the other piece of the suit, he adjusted it, then turned to look at the door in front. Slowly, he dragged his leg forward.
He reached the door, then opened it to a corridor. Another pathway presented itself: a staircase leading upstairs to a café.
He looked at it with a slight smile mixed with frustration. He pressed forward, stepping carefully, looking straight ahead. Slowly and gently, he climbed the stairs without looking back. Finally, he reached the top of the café an old man sat on a chair near a window.
The old man sat there silently, watching as the young man stepped out from the corner slowly.
He looked at the old man, realizing his situation. He didn't speak or say thank you; he walked straight to the main entrance and stepped outside.
Samuel Brooks watched him quietly. The young man walked away from the café, turning the corner to his right. He passed different stores and streets, finally arriving at an old building. He stepped inside.
He pressed his body against the corner of the building, moving slowly toward a door. He opened it, then fell down.
He landed on a bed. This was his apartment: an empty room in a rundown building. This was his life of poverty.
The gaze of the room spoke of hardship: a rundown bed in the corner, one table, one chair, and a cracked mirror.
The room was filled with spider webs, dust covering everything, and old wooden beams falling from the ceiling.
As his body touched the bed, he passed out.
His eyes closed as he fell asleep.