It had begun...well, he couldn't give an exact date for when it had begun. When all you see is the rotten interior of a crumbling animation studio, time lost a lot of its meaning. Since sleeping had become not only unnecessary but seemingly impossible, it was hard to discern when it was day or night, or how many days had passed. Faintly he recalled feverishly etching tally marks into some wall, back when he'd just got trapped in there. Back when he still held out hope of escaping the studio, back when (he shuddered in disgust and self-loathing) he had feared his saviour instead of worshipping him.
Back to the change. It had begun when he was in a less-lucid state, having resorted to spending hours collapsed in front of one of the many, many shrines. He had been kneeling there, faint prayers escaping his lips with every shallow breath he took , when he noticed a strange feeling running down his arms. The fact that he was even feeling anything other than overwhelming numbness was strange in of itself, but what he felt was even stranger. It was a terrifying, powerful coldness, one that made his arms wrap instinctively round his chest, trying to shield himself form the chill that felt like it was covering his body.
And then, like it never been there, the terrible cold vanished, leaving the pathetic ink creature panting on his knees. What was...that? Snapping back to a more lucid state, Sammy glanced left and right. Nothing was there, except a cut-out of Bendy staring coldly down at him. No one had seen it. No one was here. He was alone. Feeling a laugh, or maybe a sob, rising in his throat, Sammy scrambled to his feet and hurried off back to his office, collapsing in his chair. Hopefully, this was a one time thing.
It wasn't a one time thing.
A while passed and these moments of coldness continued. As previously mentioned he had no way of calculating time, but if he had to make a guess he's say about once every two days. There was never any warning , and he was always left collapsed on the floor, mind and body numb, wondering what he'd done to deserve this sort of punishment. Was...was it Bendy's doing? As soon as that thought arose he shook his head, drops of ink flying everywhere, and hugged his knees closer to his chest. No. That was implying that his Lord was displeased with him and that meant his Lord was unfair, because he'd done nothing wrong! Everything he had done for the past however many years had been for his Lord, how could he deserve punishment? But the more he sat there, ink spilling out onto the wood, the more he considered Bendy, his saviour, the only thing keeping him from trying to rip his cursed body apart, and permanently freeing himself from his wretched existence once and for all, being the one responsible for his continued suffering.
He spent the next 16 hours or so sitting there, knees hugged to his chest, almost completely still. He may have screamed a bit, yelling nonsense at the walls, at the floors, at the ink. He may have sobbed, droplets of ink sliding down his face (his mask had been cast aside in the cold fit, and lay in a puddle on the floor, ink soaking into the cardboard), and dripping down endlessly. And he may have simply sat in silence, thinking. Whatever he did, near the end of those 16 hours he noticed his vision darkening around the edges, not from ink, it wasn't drippy enough, but the darkening that meant he was falling unconscious. 'Huh' he thought as his mind melted away into sleep, 'That hasn't happened in a while.'.
