The Sketchpad

Dark

Dark. That was all he could think as he lay there, immobilized. He thought about the time when he was eight years old, having a sleepover with some classmates. It had been so dark, so pitch-black, unbelievably dark, when the man had entered the house. When he had taken two of the boys with him.

He supposed that that might be the reason he didn't like the dark. He could be stolen away, softly and quietly like the breeze, like his childhood friends. Never seen again. 

Instead he was here, in this different kind of dark. This dark was stifling. There was no breeze, and no sound. There was no smell. The stale air had no taste. He thought absentmindedly that he expected a metallic taste.

Most importantly, he couldn't see anything. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know why he was there. Heck, he didn't even know how he got there! 

He remembered laying in bed. He remembered the soft red glow of his cheap alarm clock. The moonlit squares of light on his hard floor. The glint of the hallway light on his football helmet. Closing his eyes, maybe falling asleep.

After that, nothing. He awoke slowly, so slowly. Here.

His brain was foggy, and he was scared. He didn't know whether it was because he was tired or something else. He knew he should be terrified, but he wasn't. He was just... scared. Not a lot, just a little. Reading-a-horror-story scared, not experiencing-a-horror-story scared.

Suddenly his head snapped up, almost against his will. But no, he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to see. A dot of light had appeared in the distance. It was getting closer, swerving as it did. Left, right, closer, closer. Up, down, closer, closer. It shined brighter as it got closer, or was that just his imagination? He didn't know anymore.

All he knew was that when the light stopped moving, just floated in front of his face, he reached out to touch it. He didn't know why, because he didn't particularly want to touch it at first. But then an overwhelming urge came over him. To touch the light, to just reach out... press his fingers against the heat, the comfort. He did, and it the top went dark. Then the middle. Then the bottom, where his palm was pressed against the surprisingly cool light. Then he stopped being able to feel his hand. The feeling, or rather the non-feeling, gradually snaked down his arm, until he couldn't feel it. Then his chest. Then his legs. Then his neck, and the last thing he felt was his head going numb, his mouth opening silently, and his eyes closing, cutting him off from the dark.