She is standing amidst thousands of people, yet she feels alone. As if they were just illusions, a dark trick, of her twisted mind. Her shoulders feel heavy, from the burden they had been carrying for years, invisible. Neon signs illuminate the night, but her eyes can only see the dark. “Colours” is a foreign word.
She starts walking towards what she understands to be her home. Home. A curious word, really. She isn’t sure whether she has a “home” or is just a wanderer. But isn’t everyone a wanderer?
Eventually, a building comes into sight. It looks unfamiliar to her. She goes through the glass doors, and meets a grand staircase. She just continues to walk, as if in a trance. But she stumbles, and her hands grip the iron railing. They are moist. From sweat or her worries, no one really knows. Her grip falters, and she falls.
She keeps falling, just never stops. As if she were falling into Tartarus. As soon as this thought hits her, a swarm of invisible knives pierce her. Her body writhes in agony, but she refuses to die. She screams, shouts, yells, but it falls on deaf ears. Even she doesn’t hear herself. Her vision goes blank.
Her torturous descent suddenly stops. She hovers in midair. Her body is numb, and sore from invisible wounds. She gives in; unable to hold on much longer. A maniacal laugh escapes her mouth as she bursts into ashes.