He looks around him and cannot see a thing. It is dark, so terribly dark. Shadowy figures loom over him, are they even human? He can't remember what had happened to him just that he had woken up and it had been dark. He places his hands tentatively out from his sides, feeling for something, anything that will tell him where he is. Nothing, just empty blackness.
He shuffles his foot along the ground, back and forth; there is something, a scraping noise made by his shoe. The ground is concrete. Bending down he swipes his hand across the dirty concrete floor. It's covered in stones and there is a sudden pinch and warm feeling flowing over his hand. Glass. He clasps his other hand over the injured one and cradles it to his slight body. He stands, walks a pace to his left, and keeping his injured hand close, reaches out with the other to feel. His hand touches nothing but air. Another pace. And another. Still nothing. There is a stinging in the back of his eyes and he swallows. He feels nauseous and dizzy but he is sure that the darkness is just making him disorientated and the blood on his hand sick.
He wants to sit, to help his achy legs, but the glass; he does not want to injure himself any further. He settles for crouching. the ache eases and then sweeping a shoe round his close proximity he felt that it was safe to sit and he does so, knees pressed up tightly to his chest, damaged hand cradled in between, the other holding his knees. He rested a weary head on top of his knees and tears fall gently, soaking into the material of his jeans.