Stitches

Emptiness was the first thing I felt. At first it was like a white room, a room with one inhabitant - me. Everything was pristine, the completely blank walls void of any markings whatsoever, the polished tiled floors, the bundled up white sheets on the painted wooden bed frame. It was strange and somewhat haunting. It left a feeling of foreboding lingering in the air and that in itself was honestly terrifying. Many questions jumped at me, each as frightening as the next, but one stood out above them all. Am I dead?

Next came the darkness, and in a way, it was worse than the light. It was suffocating, dragging me down, pulling me under. I couldn't see, I couldn't hear, I couldn't breathe. There was nothing but pitch black and a dead silence. The most sound that reached my ears were muffled voices that reverberated around the walls - whether that be actual walls or the walls inside my own head I'm not entirely sure. I tried to hear what they were saying, but somehow I couldn't. It was almost as if a faint buzzing noise had been layered over them, making each voice indistinguishable from the next. There were several, though, and each spoke in urgent tones.

Eventually I gave up, slipping down into unconsciousness again, which honestly I preferred. It was simpler - no pain, no fear, no obnoxious voices trying to tell the world exactly what was happening as if they were the most important figure to have ever existed. It was exhausting and beyond confusing, and to escape from that even if only for an hour or two was a blessing.

But when you slip under, there's only so long before you're flung into reality again.