My hands scrape against the wall behind me, the tips of my fingers coming off raw from the brutality that I slashed them across the rough surface with, and the pain sends a bolt through my body; up my arm and into my heart. I rush backwards, slamming my arms onto the wall, and almost my face. I grasp at it. It is real. It is real. Always here. The stone-bricked, rough wall. Feel its grooves. Feel it through the pain. It is real. My ragged breathing slows down, but my eyes remain wide against the dark. Breathe. Calm. I am real. This is real. I close my eyes and close my mouth, breathing heavily through my nose once again like I was a day ago, or two days ago, or a week ago. I do not know how long it has been. The dungeon has been messing with me. The dark has been messing with me.

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