The Heavy Breath of the Dark

I awake into the deepest, darkest black imaginable. I can see nothing but the heavy breath of the dark. It clings to my body like a tangible force, but it’s all psychological—it’s just my eyes not registering the fact that there is no light in this room—or wherever I am.

With my sight gone, my ears start to attune to the environment. But even my hearing is all but smothered. All I can process is the rattling sound of what I can only assume is my breath, the sound it’s making as it passes through my nervous throat. Is there someone else here? I can’t say for sure, because the lack of other noise makes my breathing seem so loud it cancels other things out.

But I can tell I am in a room—the sound reverberates back several times, and I can feel cold metal against my palms. I am in a large, metallic room. Yes. And just when I start to get comfortable with the fact that I know my general surroundings, that knowledge is upset.

Because that’s when the tapping begins.

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