The room was empty but for one dark-haired teenager. He sat in the middle of the room, the white walls reflecting the fluorescent lighting harshly. The wooden floor was smooth beneath his pale fingers, his nails scraping against the grains of the floor as his hands clenched and unclenched, knees drawn up to his chest. He stared blankly ahead, one of his navy eyes hidden behind his ebony fringe. His face held no emotion, no interest in anything. He didn't even bat an eye when one of the overhead lights flickered and dimmed out, popping back on with an electric zap a moment later.

To him, it wasn't worth the energy that he would have to exert to look up at the light. It wasn't worth his time. It was pointless to look up; the light would either die or it would come back on again, and either way, it didn't really matter, did it? He was stuck in this room, trapped. There was no getting out. There was no point in trying.

Long ago he had lost the will to try and pry open the single way in or out of his cell: the door that, unless one knew it was there, blended in perfectly with the wall. Many a time he had stained the walls and floor red with his blood as it dripped from his ripped nails and raw fingers, the door no closer to being open. He was stuck eternally unless someone took pity on him. Unless there was a person in this godforsaken place that had a soul.

The boy sat with his back to the camera that continually watched him, a red light blinking continually, showing that it was on. They had no right to invade every second of his privacy. He wasn't going to give them the pleasure of watching him go insane. At first he hadn't understood what they were doing. They must have been amused at first, watching him claw at the space in the wall until his hands were raw and his blood painted the walls. It had always been clean when he'd woken up. He had no concept of time. An hour could have passed, or maybe years. Every moment was the same as the next, the room unchanging.

He never remembered going to sleep. He only remembered waking up in the middle of the floor, every time, in the same position. He would be flat on his back, his arms and legs spread out like he had been staring up at the plain white ceiling. The lost time didn't bother him at all; it meant he didn't have to remember sitting for what felt like ages, with nothing to do but occupy his own mind.

There was nothing he could do to change his current situation. Nothing at all. There was no point in trying; it would just lead to more amusement for those who kept him here. He'd never seen them. When he woke up things would be in his room—food, a new set of clothing, whatever he "needed"—but as soon as he had finished with whatever little task had been presented for him to do, he'd be waking up again, sprawled out on the floor.

He hated being so sprawled out. It made him feel too exposed, too wide-open. It was like they were trying to search him for something and he never had what they wanted, but they kept trying any way. When would they just go away? When could he be done with it all? He couldn't remember anything from before he'd been trapped inside. The glaring white of the walls had isolated him, blocked him from the rest of the world. He couldn't even remember his own name. What would be the point in having a name, anyway? No one here cared, if there even were other people here.

If they tried to talk to him to ask him questions, he would be useless. He wouldn't know the answers. He wasn't even completely sure he remembered how to speak. The concept of opening his mouth and making any sort of sound was almost foreign; there was no use in doing so if there was no other person there to talk to. So he stayed silent.

He let his head fall forward slightly, resting his chin on his knees. Out of the corner of his eye he caught some sort of movement. Without moving his body, he focused on the motion. A white, fog-like cloud was inching across the floor, creeping ever closer.

Oh, he thought. I remember… I'll fall asleep… He could almost remember now, the feeling the gas that was pumped into the room would give him. It would make him feel tired, like someone was pulling his eyelids down and turning off the world. Why did he never remember that when he woke up? It didn't matter. He didn't have to think for a while…that was fine with him. He continued to breathe normally as the gas filtered in between his fingers and around his ankles, rising slowly toward his face.

Almost immediately he knew this was different. It felt heavier, thicker. . . Like he was trying to inhale soup. He frowned. This wasn't right. He didn't feel tired. He wasn't sure what he felt… A few more breaths and the feeling changed. It wasn't just heavy anymore; it was like someone was continually dropping weights on his chest, adding more and more despite the increasing pressure on his chest. His lungs ached with lack of air, eyes clenching shut as he struggled to breathe. That's what they wanted him to do, wasn't it? Breathe in the gas. He wouldn't fight it. There was no point.

Opening his eyes, he could see the misty vapor of the gas drifting around his head, his vision blurring and darkening at the edges. He felt his body sway, the effort required to hold himself upright almost too much trouble. It wasn't but a moment later that he slumped sideways, head knocking dully against the wooden floor. It didn't hurt. In fact, he didn't even feel it. He couldn't feel much of anything; it was like his entire body had gone numb, lungs frozen in place by the oppressive gas.

They'll be happy I'm gone… The boy closed his eyes, letting go of everything his mind tried desperately to hold on to. There was no point. It wasn't worth fighting. The gas was killing him. Whoever had locked him up in here won, there was nothing more to it. It was the end.