It was dark. It was cold.
Why was it so cold? Was it his body that felt cold or was it his heart that had been reduced to nothing but a muscle merely beating to keep him alive?
Why couldn't he feel anything? Why could he hear nothing but deathly silence so eerie that it made his skin crawl?
His body did not hurt. For it was a mere husk of what he had once been. His bones rattled, his heart beating out a frantic rhythm. Frenzy flowed in his veins and emptiness resonated in his person.
His body did not hurt.
Blood flowed down his head, smeared on his face was the darkened red fluid, viscous and disgustingly warm as it trickled down the trails of his — let down and tangled — hair. It was bone-chilling as it whispered softly against his skin, peeking through the ups and downs of his features, dripping down his elegant brows, down his long lashes as he forgot to even blink.
