Pain.
She was grateful for the pain.
It slid through the fog of her existence, twined around her mind, gave her something to focus on beyond the endless black before her, stretching out into oblivion.
There should have been things here. Dangerous, monstrous things that were physical manifestations of hate. Their innocuous exterior hiding their cunning intelligence and sickening appearance. They should have been here, screaming their rage at her; striking out with her with bright flashes of deadly light. Should have been.
But all that existed was the black.
And the pain.
She twisted, drifted; her mind fogged, her thoughts vague. The pain slid forward occasionally, capturing her attention and giving her something to focus on. But gradually, gradually, even that failed to touch her. She held up hands, but could not see them in the black. She touched her stomach, but felt no cloth. Perhaps she had no hands. Perhaps she had no form.
But she had pain.
She reached for it, now. Caressed it like a lover. Wound it about her and let it cling softly. It lay gently across her shoulders, trailed over her chest like satin, a comfort in the darkness. Pain was a name now. Just a name. An identity for the only thing that gave her form. It outlined her, flowed inside her, eased the strain of nonexistence.
She did not know how she got here. Did not know if she should ever leave. Perhaps she had always been thus. Winding through the darkness was an even deeper black; she watched it lazily without eyes, unconcerned for herself or anything else. It approached, it receded, never touching her, though it was right next to her, and never leaving, though it seemed to vanish completely.
The pain did not alter with the things presence or lack, it threaded through her with no purpose but its own existence. She turned from the thing (though turning did not exist in a place that had no form) and clutched at the pain, petting it without hands. All she had was the pain, all she was - pain. If she let it go, she would dissolve into darkness as had the monsters.
The black returned, she ignored it. Then something new happened. New became a word that existed where it hadn't before. The black touched her. Touch, and the pain flared. The pain defined her, and there was more to her now than there was, as there was more pain than there was.
The black split, gaped, a maw amongst nothing. It moved, surrounded her, swallowed. The pain vanished, and so did she.
She breathed with lungs she'd not had before, felt with skin that she had lost. She opened new eyes and saw a hand. Beyond, a mess of brown hair. She reached up, grasped it, and her nerves exploded.
Rose existed, and she was pain.