It wasn't what he expected. Nothing ever is, he guessed, but this? This was not what he expected, no, not at all. He opened his eyes, surprised. What was this? He felt ... nothing. Was he even breathing? He put his hand to his chest, waiting for the rise and fall. Nothing.

Nothing. He focused above him and saw a flash of silver by the dim sliver of light above his shoulder. No, not silver -- more like the brushed, dull pewter of stainless steel. He flexed his fingers, relieved to feel the familiar sensation of muscle moving over cartilage. He was still alive. He tried to breathe again -- a deep, life-affirming breath. The breath of the living.

Nothing. He moved his hands softly underneath him. It was smooth -- silky, almost, like fine satin, with a bit of give beneath it, as though he were resting on a bed of quilt batting. Cotton balls, he thought.

He remembered very little from before. Even his name was a fuzzy memory -- he thought it began with a J, he thought wearily, but it could have been a B. He closed his eyes again. He remembered their faces. Their small faces twisted in horror, pleading for mercy, disbelieving that someone could be so cruel. That someone could relish their pain, and oh, how he did. He remembered that much. He did. He tried to twist his face into a smile at the memory, but found he felt no joy.

Nothing.

What was this? He raised his hands against the cold steel. It was curved, like how he'd always imagined the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel would feel like up close. He pushed. Gently at first, then harder.

Nothing.

Harder, still.

Nothing.

Harder.

Nothing.

He tried to breathe again.

Nothing.

He tried to scream.

Nothing.

Hell, he thought. I'd rather be in hell.

An answer.

Where do you think you are?

Comments

[ms picket to you]

omg. i totally just rechecked the doors.

this skeered me.

like major scare. and that means something.

[Mongoliangirl]

Wouldn't that be the worst? To feel nothing. I'm can't say I am relishing in his fate, but...

[TwoBusy]

The way you paralleled the inside surface with the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? That's gonna stick in my head for a while.

[Cheryl]

It's taken me 2 days to comment because I felt as though you'd climbed into my head. Beginning at the age of 6, the thought of being able to nothing but think after I was dead lead to insomnia ~ a lifetime of insomnia (thankfully, death is no longer the trigger). And I've gotta say, very nicely done. Scared the crap out of me.

[Susan (Trout Towers)]

This is magnificently creepy. I am going to be a better person, starting now.

That said, I know I'm alone in this, but the thought of lying on cotton balls would be hell enough, thank you. Squishing cotton balls? Akin to scratching chalkboards.

[Kerri Anne]

Wow.