Screaming. Void. Darkness. The sounds of what you believe to hear, turn to silence in the depths of an endless abyss. He wonders, staring blankly in this dark, eternal vision with his eyes being the only light that brighten this place. Everything was nothing, and nothing was something in this space. It was dark. It was just nothing, but something. It was lonesome. The lonesome space of something full of nothing. It was quiet, no noise escaping anywhere as he just floated in this abyssal, spacious place. He wanted out of this place though. He struggled, he wobbled, he waddled, he even tried to swim. Nothing came to result, and he just floated. He felt as if he moved, but you do not move in a void if everything is nothing, and nothing didn't make anything.
No light to show a way, no materialized substance to be able to grip, no ground to locate how far he has traveled, nothing. It was pitch dark, sound did not travel, and it was absolutely true horror to anyone's mind to see such things. Until a buzz was heard. The buzz was loud, and he could feel it shake him. Reality finally kicked in, and he opened his eyes. He stared at the bland ceiling that hovered above him. He was out of the spacious grounds, to enter another spacious grounds. He slowly sat up, and gently rubbed his head.
"Another night of the same dream," he said as it was not the first time. It had happened every night. He looked around his room to see everything was still in order, or at least the same. His room was small, a tall dresser, a desk with a dimmed laptop still powered on, a table with a small lava lamp on it, and his bed. He reached over to snooze his shattered phone alarm, and straddled off the bed to come to a sharp sense at his foot. His foot extracted from the sharp material, being a nail on it's side. He didn't bleed at the step as it wasn't that sharp, but he still repositioned his foot as he stared at the ground with guidance, just to see a couple of nails on the floor.
The nails were not mysterious to him, as he must've dropped them when he was wondering around his home. He was working on his table since it needed a new leg, and the buzzing must've shook the bag of the nails he settled on it the night before onto the floor into a spill. He only did a sigh, and he decided he would clean it later. He became less cautious as he made his way to the door. From his room to the bathroom, he moved at a sluggish, dead rate. He stood at his mirror, and looked up to stare at his dead beat eyes. It was completely white, no pupil or anything, just like in his dream but it did not light up. He thought it was just normal, and did not care.
He stared at the rest of his upper body, seeing his hair sticking everywhere, few minor marks around his face, and a blue tint around his neck. He shrugged it off, and stared at his counter. It looked more clean, with the withdraw of small stains of red. It must've been blood when he was shaving, or doing something else inconsiderate. He grabbed a rag, made it damp with the rushing water and just wiped it off. He gave off a soft sigh as he looked down at his oversized clothes, and made his way out the bathroom.
Wondering over back to his room, he grabbed a broom and swept the nails into a pile off to the side to be picked up later. He did not feel like bending over or kneeling down just to do something that was going to happen again so early. He moved over to his dresser, taking out some torn clothing pieces and slammed the dresser closed. He removed his wear and slid on his new outfit with much ease, and stretched. His back popped a bit, but then he could feel something else. Something rushing through his body, making him become slowly light headed. He looked over to where a spot is torn at and saw the issue; fresh blood slowly pouring out.
Nothing new to him. A body is easily damaged, and his tissue was fragile to even stretches. Where and how did this happen? It was more located near his waist, and it was covered, but not filled, with markings. They averaged from cuts and bruises to just doing what he did on a basis. Making his way to the bathroom once more, he grabbed a long bandage and wrapped it around himself. The bandage kept it's place so he didn't worry about it falling off. Hell, he could give a fuck if it actually did come off at the moment.
*With his final trip back into his bedroom, he sat on the bed. He reached over to take his socks and shoes, and took the pair. He slipped the socks on first, then she shoes. Finally, he grabbed his phone and keys on the table, and got up. He shifted himself to the door, grabbing his oversized black hoodie, also being somewhat torn. He had a habit of cutting what he wore, it was his style of outfitting. He gave one more look through his room, and walked out his room for the last time without pace.
He straddled himself through the hall into his main area, the living room and kitchen. They both were opened to one another, being from his house at his small, but suitable size. Standing at his counter, he placed his hands onto the counter to let out a sigh. It was irritating to him to repeat the same process every single day, and getting through his routine without care. He gave his counter a look, almost an examining expression just to lock eyes with his Night Cobra. The revolver was short handled, positioned to point at the floor, and was not on safety what so ever. It had one bullet on it, but that is about it.
He took a grip of that revolver, and shook it to open to see if it was still clean. It hasn't been used yet what so ever since he bought it, but he didn't have any reason to use it. He placed it back down, and skipped eating breakfast as he gave his kitchen the usual "Fuck off" expression. At this point, he already spent a slow hour just getting everything done, yet it was only close to eleven. He extracted his hands from the counter, reposition himself to face the door and walked over it. He pushed his keys into his pocket, and opened the door. He stepped outside, closing the door behind him, and stared up at the gloomy sky. He was sick of his routine, and sick of having to be stared at for his outfit which his pure white eyes. He was not bothered by anything, and his bandage was still latched on him, even being a bit damp.
His head shifted back into a 'natural' angle as he pushed his hands into his pockets. He began to step away from his house, and wondered away. He continue to step in life like he is supposed to do, only to be a pawn to what he does. Only to be judged, and live in a retched world he calls "Home." Soon enough, he will be recognized in a way he expected. Soon enough. At this point, he continues his wonders and continue to be wonderous.
