[CW: Gore and Torture]

–and I drift back awake. As I awaken, the blackness surrounding me recedes, the colors of the world unblending, returning to their rightful places. Grey seeps back into the walls. Monotone, plain, undecorated - a background detail not important enough to warrant a description. Any good storyteller would know not to waste their precious words on it. Red and gold join with the measured movements of the figures flitting in and out of my vision. Characters. Characters wearing red robes. Important people. I can tell by the designs. So intricate, so descriptive. Gleaming silk weaves in and out of a red velvet sea, twisting into shapes and symbols. I can almost feel the dragons, birds and beasts peaking their heads out of the very fabric. The green of emerald eyes soon appears to me, as though these beasts have taken notice of my waking. Who are these characters? What role do they have? What are they holding? They’re holding something. Grey? No, colorless. Colorless tubes. They drive them towards me, towards my arms, towards my skin. Closer, closer and closer, until– Ouch! That hurt! Hurt? Why does it hurt? And there are more. Dozens of tubes are peppered across my arms, covering every inch. The pale skin between each one seems so thin that it should tear at any moment. A river of blue, inky blood flows out through this forest of vessels. Something isn’t right. The colors don’t match! Skin shouldn't be white and blood shouldn’t be blue! A rookie mistake really. Oh, it hurts again. The crisp sound of tearing. I can see it now. They’re tearing skin. My skin. Layer by layer. It hurts. It hurts more. What story is this? Did I write this? Why do I have skin? Why do I have arms? Why am I here? I shouldn’t be here. I have to help him write the story. I need to leave. I need to move. I move. It hurts. Please stop. Can’t you hear me? I have a story to write. Stop. Please stop. I don’t want this. Someone, please help. Please help. Help. It’s going dark. It’s hard to think… Please, stop… No… It’s going dark… I can’t see… It still hurts… Help–

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In a room that no one will ever find, resides a being called The Story. Their small, thin form sits in that room, day after day, drifting in and out of consciousness. Even in these rare moments of wakefulness they can do nothing. Their legs are sunk into the floor, paper flesh merged with stone. Dozens upon dozens of tubes puncture their arms, siphoning a never ending flow of inky blood, like a forest of azure reeds. So numerous are they that it’s difficult to make out the thin, frail patches of skin in between each tube. Their torso looks so thin from all the sheets torn off of it. Even now one can see a layer limply hanging off, its edges moist with blue. At times you can hear soft murmurs from them, asking for something. But there’s no one who will listen. And there’s no one who will help.