Little Black Room

Time: 9:40 am.
Music: Wait And Bleed - Slipknot.
Mood: Dead.
Physical Condition: Wish I was in a coma.
Current Thoughts: Why is this such a mess?

I am in a cold black room, there is no sound in or out. There is merely no presence of light. Inky blackness, no more, no less. This is a small room, maybe five feet wide and 7 feet tall. The walls are lined with meticulously sharpened daggers, each four inches from another. There is only enough room to stand still. Any movement causes the daggers to stab me, causing blood loss and fatigue.

I am tired.
I'm so tired.

All I am able to do day to day is stand. I am ignorant as to how long I have been here. All I know is that I am here, standing in the black. I know about the daggers for I have bumped into them in moments of weakness. Moments where I feel I can no longer stand, and must rest, no matter what the cost. The temptation of the walls, of a moments rest becomes so overwhelming. All I want is that break. So I finally take it, and I get hurt.

I try so hard.
I'm losing.

I've been fighting for so long. I don't know how long, but its been so very long. I've been fighting the impulses to fall, fighting the fatigue of standing for so long. For exerting myself so much. I've been trying so hard not to injure myself. Not to fall onto those daggers. No sleeping, crouching, leaning.

How long have I been here?

My eyes are heavy. I sometimes wonder if I even have eyes anymore. It doesn't seem to me I do. There is no difference between having them open and closed. They no longer even itch if I leave them open. I wonder if perhaps I am blind. And that this room is no darker than the sunny side of heaven. I am somehow disinclined to believe that, but I have no way of disproving it. All I know is I can no longer see.

Claustrophobia.

It feels like the walls are closing in on me. It's hard to breathe. I'm panicking, and in doing so, I am repeatedly stabbing myself on the daggers surrounding my dark prison. After trying so hard for so long, I've become so tired and so weak that I can no longer hold myself up. I've used up the last of my energy fighting for consciousness. Though I can not see them I am anticipating the sting of the daggers. Any moment now.

I laugh.

As the cold metal bites through my skin I am laughing.
The lights come on. I am laughing.
Blood pours from my multiple wounds, and I am laughing.

This is the first time I've seen the light, felt real, and been warm for who knows how long. I can't remember. Of course I have no way of knowing.

I am dead.