"NOOOOOOOOOO!" He woke up screaming, drenched in sweat, gasping for air. For what seemed liked eternity he struggled to gather his composure, lost in his own dark world.
It was the early morning hustle and bustle of the market place outside his window that brought him back to reality. Tentatively he scanned the small room that had become his home, his solitude in the past months, somewhere in his heart hoping this was the true nightmare. But it never was. Dark and dirty the room was a far cry from the life he was use to, but he was proud and both ashamed of it. A shaky cot as an excuse for a bed, toilet and sink in one corner, with a small stove in another, the room held all that man required to survive. Survive….. That's all his life had been reduced to, survival. The cold room lacked the warmth needed to live, a way of being he had lost somewhere. He used to have a life. He used to live, but now he was nothing more than a corpse. Yet, he had a heart that would not give up, a mind that would not have mercy on him, and a soul…a soul that was so scarred he wondered if it even qualified as being one. No, he did not live anymore. He was part of the walking dead.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Edward Masen removed the dingy sheet covering his body and made his way towards the sink on shaking legs. Closing his eyes, he moaned at the sensation of the arctic water striving to turn his hands numb. Numb. That's what he wanted to be. He wanted to be free of the aches both physical and emotional. He absentmindedly rubbed his shoulders, brining the cold water to them. Icy droplets ran down his svelte form, perhaps the only thing of his former life he still retained. He continued to wash his upper body. His eyes closed and his form resolute. From afar he looked at peace, in truth he was anything but.
His mind was fighting a battle. Look. Don't look. Look. Don't Look. Not opening his eyes he stretched his arm out to support himself against the wall. Hunched over the sink, he struggled. His face was at an impasse. He could hear the guttural splashes of the water coming from the faucet below him. He moved back. Emerald eyes met emerald eyes in the grimy mirror. He could see the challenge in them, his own reflection mocking him. Sighing, he decided. Moving towards the sink, he refused to look away from himself. He felt the water splash his hands, fill them as he cupped his hands together. With one more determined glare at himself, he slowly brought his gaze down. Hesitantly he opened his hands and looked, wishing he had chosen not to.
Blood, it flowed endlessly from his hands. Thick, dark maroon, it tainted his hands. He began to rub his hands in earnest, nothing. He reached for the soap, nothing. It would not stop. "Please, please, please stop," he begged. His heart constricted in his chest, his breathing became labored. He could feel the walls closing in on him wanting to swallow him whole. He fell to the ground, drawing himself in to a fetal position. His whole body shook with a violent force as he rocked back and forth. Tears flowed down his face in silent streams as he lay there on the floor hurting, broken.