Alexander awoke to find himself sitting upright in a chair. Of course, he didn’t know what a chair was exactly but he did note the fact that he was sitting in one.
His wrists and ankles were bound to it with chains. A light bulb hung above him, swinging to and fro, gleaming dimly in the darkness.
Like a deranged dance, a moth began to flutter around it, kissing the hot surface of the glass every now and then.
Alex was entranced by it, watching its movements, the arc of its fuzzy body, the dust that its wings stirred with every beat.
A hand swiped at the moth and it fell to the concrete floor. Confused, he peered at it in the darkness, searching for its movements.
“That’s called dead, son. Stone cold dead,” A face loomed into view. It was the man with a red beard.
Panic rose in his throat. He began to struggle against his bonds, chains cutting into his flesh.
Dead? What was this new sound that sounded so cold and emotionless?
This was the opposite of existing. The moth was no more, crumpled in a little heap by Alex’s feet.
And it scared him more than anything ever had.
It scared him more than when he first bit his arm to get a taste of blood – and freedom.
His body began to spasm in fear, the chair jumping up and down on the spot.
“Don’t worry,” the man produced a long needle, the tip dripping a sickly yellow liquid,
“It’ll all be over soon,”