Author's Notes: Okay, this was a dream I had. I need to sort it out. If this doesn't weird you out too much, in the second chapter is where I tie it into fanfiction.
The man paced, back and forth, his boots (classic, soft black leather boots) whispered on the nondescript floor. White; that's what the floor was, and dusty. The walls-if there were any-were so white, they had the impression of infinite distance. The ceiling was presented as the sky, painted that way, a sunset locked in time. It was ominous, being so close to it in some places.
That man, dressed in a white shirt that managed, somehow, to stand out against the brilliant background, stopped pacing. The chair was uncomfortable, the way all hard metal fold-up chairs are when you've been sitting an hour too long. There seemed to be a small, wooden, rounded table immediately next to the chair, but without the ability to turn your head, there was no way to tell.
It was unimportant anyway. The man held out a weapon. The knife was an ordinary kitchen knife, and yet the 6-inch silver blade, offset by black plastic, was so warmly beautiful.
Ah...it seemed that, along with the inability to look to the sides, it was impossible to look up at the man's face. He existed from the shoulders down, unwelcome and inspiration for caution, until that knife was held out.
A smile, but not from the man, as the knife is accepted. Smiling at the silver, smiling at the man, aware of the comfortable black pants, aware of the one thought I shouldn't do this; it's wrong;
and the knife, held in my right hand, is stabbed into my left thigh (sitting on this uncomfortable chair was useful after all), pulled back, and then changed to the left hand. Stabbing down into my thigh again, up, smiling, down, a new place, near the knee, up by the hip, more to the left, feeling not pain, but the weight of the blade, stabbing; it hits bone, almost every time, and I pull it back to find a new, unscarred place.
And the man paces. He's content. He's waiting.
