This is only the start, and it shall be developed more in the coming weeks/months :)
All I shall say, for backround info as it is not yet included in the story, that this is set in Burkina Faso.
Soulemayne awoke with a shuddering jolt. He sat up in bed, if it could really be desribed as such, the state of it meaning it was a barely credible sleeping place for many of the hostile creatres that permanently lingered outside the dilapidated hut he called home, and stared around, trying to soothe the searing pain in his lungs, panting hard to try and re-oxygenate his body as the after effects of yet another horrendous hallucinogenic nightmare came into play.
He laid his head back down on the straw-like pillow and gazed up at the patchy celing, easily able to see vast areas of the star-lit night sky through the gaping holes in the roof. The burning agony in his stomach, which came as a result of having consumed nothing for three days, bar a drop of water the previous morning, did not even bother Soulemayne one bit. Nor, oddly, did the nightmare.
It had become almost old for him. Very much like the desperate lack of nutrition, he had just become used to it. The same feelings every night, every single night, almost as long as he could remember. The nightmare, initially a source of crippling despair and pain in his life, no longer had any effect at all. It was just there. A part of him. Engrained deep within the flesh and blood that comprised his being. He felt nothing.
He felt nothing at all, about anything. Nothing mattered anymore. He took a glance down both arms, two limbs that contained horrors unimaginable to most of us, limbs that were covered in burns, scars, cuts and other such ailments, self inflicted or otherwise, and merely shrugged and laid his head back, nestling into his pillow. The feeling of self-hate and shame that had previously occupied him when seeing these marks upon himself was there no more. There was nothing within him anymore.
He was empty.