All he could see was endless white. All he could feel was the stakes that pierced through his chest and feet. All he could hear were his own screams and the wild beating of his heart. All he could do was sit, confined by the box he lived in, chained by immeasurable pain.
He was sick of this colourless prison. Often he would claw mindlessly. Leave scratch marks, blood trails, anything; as long as it destroys this faux purity. Every time he saw a drop of colour, he'd smile; a wide smile that split his face in half. It never quite reached his eyes, however. If anything, it reached the edge of insanity.
Desperate to spark that flicker of happiness, day and day he would scratch more, cut more, let out more than a little drop of colour out of him. Until his body withered.
His last moment was either pitiful or drowned in happiness. He couldn't tell. Colour clouded his sight. Red. Blood Red. As far as his eyes could see, everything was painted a deep crimson.
He smiled, he laughed. He screamed. His lungs were on fire. He was happy, he thought. But was he really? He didn't realize that everything began to fade - the sea of red, his smile, his body - engulfed by black.