Saying he'd lost track of time was a gross understatement. All he saw was a bright yellow light, walls of images, and the ink. Endless ink that ran in dark rivers down stairways and coated the floor like some sort of sick carpet. He'd ventured upwards from the flooded maze a few times, if only to see something different from the eternally looping cartoon projected around him. On the few occasions he'd gone up there he'd quickly retreated back to safety. Toon monstrosities shuffled around in constant pain (he could relate), and even tried taking swipes at him. Up there they had the advantage of light, numbers, and spacious rooms. Down in his maze, however, the tables turned. The few times some of them stumbled down there, he'd found himself compelled to strike out. Down in the inky depths the amalgamations soon met a gorey fate. He'd gotten used to the remains laying around, and had learnt not to question it if they twitched again. A quick stomp made them still again.
He saw all of this, but his other senses didn't seem to have made it through whatever transformation had made him like this. Although he knew ink covered the floor, walls and most of his body, he didn't feel cold and wet, or anything. The one constant feeling was one of dull pain, most painful where film reels and wires fused with his own body. This wasn't counting the terrible pain centred around where his neck connected to the projector, horrible pain that never lessened, and reminded him with every step he took of what he had become. Taste and smell had also disappeared. He was slightly grateful for this, as the ink sea must smell like hell itself. Taste he barely noticed missing, seeing as he now had no mouth. How he survived, he didn't know.
The worse sense loss was hearing. All he could hear, day in day out, was the static of a broken projector. Life before the Accident was a blurred mess, but one of the strongest memories was of music that weaved its way through the studio. He'd had the pleasure of hearing that music each day...why could he remember his job but not his name? These missing details about himself frustrated him to no end. With no known name he chose to be 'the Projectionist'. It was the only sense of identity he had left, the only link to before he was cursed with this broken body that couldn't hear anything but static, couldn't feel anything but pain, could only see the remains of other beings and the looping face of the demon.
He'd found a tape somehow undamaged by the ink. Something deep in his gut told him that it was his, but he couldn't tell. His voice...what did it sound like again? Now, with no mouth and vocal cords corrupted by ink, he had no voice. Grunts and moans were the only things able to escape from his strangled throat. But sounds had no point if there was no one who could hear.
No one...wait. Was that movement in the corner of his vision? Something was moving, he...he had to find it! A primal instinct seemed to guide his movements as he stumbled into walls, trying to find where this mysterious figure had disappeared to. Not over here, maybe round this corner?
And then there was pain.
More pain than he'd had before. It blossomed around his chest, his arm, someone was hitting him! Over and over the blows fell! A desperate roar sounded from him, not that he knew. He struck back. He'd killed the monsters before, why was this different? Why was this so hard? Why were they hurting him! He, he didn't do anything, he never wanted this, never! He wouldn't creep around again, he'd said he'd stop doing that. Just make the pain stop!
...
And it did.
The Projectionist fell, and remained still.
Henry continued on.