It's been a long time.
How long has it been?
The darkness isn't totally black, letting you see just enough to fear how much more blind you could be. You cling to the last remnants of your vision, hoping that it won't get any darker. You don't remember how you got here (what had you even done?), only able to recall the bright outline of a door closing and then promptly vanishing before your eyes, gone without a trace by the time you manage to crawl the few feet to the door.
You curl back against the wall, needing to touch, to feel, to make up for not quite being able to see. The corner is reassuring, in a way, letting you know that you aren't totally lost; that you still have at least one sense you can rely on. You can't hear anything, haven't heard anything in a while, so you don't even know if you've gone deaf. Even the sounds of your feet scuffing the floor and your clothes rustling against each other, or your shuffling as you try to will yourself out of this void are swallowed up by the silence.
You don't move. You don't want to admit it, but you're scared that once you move, once you stop touching these walls, they'll disappear and you'll be even more lost in a barren plain of literal nothingness. You'd tried, once, right after that door of hope had shut, to feel your way around, to get a sense of where you were now, but the emptiness had stretched on forever and you could only feel fear, the primal instinct driving you to the corner where you huddle now.
Who are you?
At first, you don't even register the fact that you're not alone. You can only feel crushing relief, that thank God, I can still hear.
A pair of...are those eyes? A pair of just barely visible eyes appears in front of you, and you shake your head. The eyes are gone when you look up again.
Am I seeing things?
You take stock of your state of being, trying to discern if anything's wrong besides the obvious. Maybe you were drugged at some point?
But the voice remains, just a faint whisper lingering in the air. You can't tell where it's coming from — maybe from the endless dark spread before you.
Who are you?
You frown. Who's asking? you want to say, but the words don't seem to come. You press your lips shut, resolute on not giving anything away. This... this sense of privacy, of having your identity to yourself, is comforting for some reason.
Stranger danger, right?
But clearly, your mouth has other ideas. Despite your efforts, the words come tumbling out. You introduce yourself in full, stating your name, your age, your likes and dislikes (and wow, you never do that, what gives?), your school; a whole lot of information that you really wouldn't want to tell some random person, especially not this... entity that's here with you. After the absolute torrent of speech that suddenly burst from your mouth, you clamp it shut just as quickly as it'd opened, still shocked at yourself and what you'd just done.
The voice does not respond, although you can still feel its presence. It's a buzzing, tingly feeling that has the hairs on the back of your neck rising, heart uneasy even if you don't know why.
(Somewhere in your subconscious, the feeling registers as danger, warning of a predator on the prowl: beware. But in your current state of mind, you can't recognize the instinct for what it is. All you feel is a slight chill in the air, slowly making its way down your spine.)
Seconds tick by, or are they minutes? Time passes, and the voice stays silent, but it doesn't leave.
You continue peering forwards, searching for the source, for something — anything — that might be here.
