Wanting Nothing

We'll see what this turns into. The plot will develop as it goes along.

He is lurking, slumped against the wall, pressing into the splintered frame that was once the door. It is not so hard for him to be here, not as hard as he had imagined. The night air on his back feels cool and dry. Beyond the gap in the wall there is only pure blackness, darkness of the truest kind, but he doesn't mind that. He didn't come here to look, after all. He came here to smell. 

The scent lingering in the doorway is one for which he has no words. It fills him, clinging to him, and releasing him with each breath. Mustiness, built over time, has smothered it a little, but not enough that he cannot find it, and remember it. As he sinks lower to the ground, closing his eyes, he is consumed by it. Nothing else exists, as he lets himself go.

Without opening his eyes, he crawls forward, feeling the floorboards shift beneath his weight. The air is so pregnant with smell that he cannot stand up to it, though he detests the feeling of the splintered wood against his palms. He creeps in further, until the blackness surrounds him, and for a fleeting second he is afraid of what he cannot see. But the smell, holding him, is reassuring, and the floor beneath him is solid and very much there, cutting into his hands as he presses into it. He relaxes, and crawls forward again.

He knows that as long as he is here, there will be nothing but darkness and smell and floor. The thought makes him smile, as he lowers himself to the ground and closes his eyes.

The End

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