It was so dark here.
Creeping along the walls like a blind thing, shaking all through thin bones and thinner skin, it was almost comical how much he hated the darkness after that blinding white place.
They had brought him to this small black room a little while ago (or not; maybe less? what is time?) and it was a relief at first, with no one there touching him and prodding him, sharp little lights shooting up his spine to infect his brain with nausea. It was so quiet and cool, and he just sank down to the floor, long hair covering him as his only blanket.
Of course, then They had closed the door. Which was when everything had changed.
Now, the dark came closing in on him, suffocating him with gnarled claws biting into his throat. Pressing himself against the wall, the only thing to do was weep.
They hated when he cried. They would slap him, stinging and with blood on his tongue, or They would hiss and command silence. It was so hard to keep still though, when the machines whirred and the wires wrapped tight around his arms and legs, invasive, unwanted.
The strangest thing about the room was, no one was in it. For so long, there had always been They near him, a hand on his shoulder, a hand in his own, dragging and leading. They seemed so comforting now. So safe.
They must come back soon, right?
Wishes are granted rarely and never in a way that is expected.
With a soft shush sound, the door opened, much too close to his hands for comfort. Snatching back spindly fingers, he stared, eyes wide and mouth gnawing at his knuckles. White, white light blinding him now, so cold and clean it made him want to bleed, to bruise, anything to keep away the lies it contained. A hand, covered by a thin white glove, small and elegant if not for the knowledge of what it could do, offered itself through the door. He took it, and gave a gentle tug, a half-idea forming sluggishly in his mind, a thought unbidden and wanted.
He gave a hard twist to the elegant, cruel hand and when he heard the sharp shriek, he threw it away from him, and moved.
With blood singing in his ears, he headed toward a different light, yellow and calm and so warm, hands out in front of him to push away the glass, to fly!
He fell, slow, and with wind calling through feathers, with sharp pains cutting away at his legs, sparkling, sparkling and he could see They, white gloves stretching, sized from big to small and all the same, and no one could catch him now, no one could take away this warmth, this sudden realness, this life.
This time, the dark was dancing with stars, a cleansing pain that was welcomed with a smile.
So, yes. This is a prologue for a story I've had in mind; but, this, so far, is all I have, and I'm not sure yet if I should continue. I would love to know your thoughts on whether or not it would be worth it.
Thank you for your time,