The next thing I did

The next thing I did was to reach out for something – whatever it might be, I felt myself longing, no, needing something to grab hold of, almost like I needed to finally assure myself of my sense of touch. Like I somehow knew, there wasn’t anything for me to grab onto. Nothing material.

I dragged my numbed legs forward, trembling – I was trembling, dammit – and reached out more. Nothing. I swung myself about, desperate, frantic, crazed, and flung my arms around wildly, dying to touch something – and then I heard it.

A yell. A growl, maybe. Something beastly, something savage, but certainly not human. Or was it?

It’s me.

In the act of desperately clutching for something, I let out an inhuman yell that wasn’t myself, something primitive that came out of me and yet wasn’t me. I started shivering. And perspiring. Were those my tears? What was that for? I hadn’t cried in years… My legs gave way, and I crumpled to the floor.

There was a ground to speak of, even if I couldn’t see it. It felt… foreign. A material that I had never laid my hands on, not hard, but… I couldn’t think anymore. I cried out again, this time consciously and with a tinge of shame. But I knew even then that shame was no longer material. Superfluous, in this state of complete solitude.

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