He sat alone in his bed, cold and emotionless in this desolate world, even his eight brothers were no longer enough to save him from this bottomless pit. He sat and stared blankly at the sickly white roof and noticed a corner of it cracking, splitting, slowly, like his fragile mind that was now consumed with his own ghoulish thoughts. Darkness filled his thoughts constantly and he found no light, nothing as a form of an escape, he was trapped in this blackness that he himself had created. He was being eaten up by the monster that he had created, a monster that he no longer had any control over, it was pulling at its seems and screaming to get out, and he simply no longer had the energy to keep it in. He missed himself. The old self, the happy self, the bright self, the smiling self, the laughing self, the gone self. When he kept thinking however, did that self even exist, or was it simply an act he had created?

He sat in this world that he had created, a black world, a desolate world, one with no love, no happiness, and he revelled in it. For in this world he no longer had to pretend to feel something but he could simply not feel, and as he ventured deeper into this world he felt himself slipping slowly further into the dark obscurity and loved it.

He hated it.

Every time he had tried to escape the ambiguousness he was pulled back down by the prodigious thing that lurked in the shadows. Once he had eleven pairs of hands to pull him out but those eleven hands became eight as three slipped away from him in turn causing his monster to grow bigger. Those eight hands then too began to fade as their own hopelessness began to consume them. No one was there anymore and he slowly allowed himself to be consumed by the darkness. It ate at him. It ate at his smile, his laugh and his tears, until there was nothing left. The person that was once known was gone, disappeared forever from the world.

His eyes focused back onto the crumbling paint and laughed, oh how lucky that paint was, it could simply be fixed with a new coat and no one would question it, how strikingly simple it was for that crumbling paint to be fixed. He had tried to fix himself but only fell apart in the process to the point where nothing could put him back together.

He reached his eyes to feel for any moistness but the ability to cry had disappeared long ago, along with most of his emotions he was a desolate black canvas, a canvas that could no longer be painted on. He liked the darkness, he liked it because he was alone, no one questioned him about what he was doing and he could tease his monster. It was thrilling really, he tempted it and it tempted back, it tempted him to fall into the blackness completely, and each time it did, he was one step closer to doing jus