His very first thoughts were those of confusion and anger. Where was he? It was dark, walls were everywhere, there was no indication of a path to take. To get him where? Back to where? He had no idea. The only thing he remembered was that just before he woke up, he had been very angry at someone. Angry, and sad, and somewhat in disbelief. He knew for sure that wherever he was, he had put himself there, but he had not wanted to do it. He took another look around. It was dark, the walls completely enclosed him in, he could see nothing but the walls. They were so close that he could not even stand, and he soon became aware of the uncomfortable feeling that comes with being hunched over for a long period of time. Becoming slightly irritated, he felt around for some manner of exit, and became anxious when he could not find one. He surprised himself by not being very distraught with this predicament, and still sitting, readjusted himself to try and make himself more comfortable (it didn't work). It was at this point that he realised that he had no idea who he was. No name, no idea how he arrived at this place, not even what he looked like. And so, he sat, in his dark room, and tried to remember. He decided to call for help, but as soon as he opened his mouth, he had a moment of panic. How do I speak? He could form words in his mind, and he could open his mouth, but could not figure out how to produce the sound. Furious, he swung his arms around, only to have them smack into the walls. Pain shot up his arm, and air flew out of his lungs as he screamed, angry and frustrated and- he stopped and covered his mouth, a smile creeping on his face. "Finally", he thought, "something to work with".

Over time, the boy worked, slowly learning to vocalize the words he kept inside his mind. It was a long, tiring process, but he admitted that it gave him something to do in the darkness. One thing that irritated him though, was that he had no idea what to call himself. Despite being able to speak his thoughts, none of his words gave any hint to who he was or where he came from. Or even where he was currently. Time passed by and soon he already knew by heart how to pronounce every word that came to his mind, but gained no knowledge otherwise. And no matter how much he pounded the walls or screamed for help, no one came, or perhaps, no one could hear him. That was infuriating. He knew he came from somewhere, and that meant that there were more of him. Why hadn't anyone come for him? Why didn't anyone hear his voice? As he sat alone, with no one but himself for comfort, his thoughts naturally drifted to the worst possible scenario, and he reasoned that no one cared for him, and must have locked him away.

Years passed, and he soon grew to learn of his largest predicament: he did not require food or water. Soon after relearning to speak the more basic words, he gathered that to survive, he would need both, yet he had been locked in this room for what seemed like an impossibly long period of time, and had neither. He denied this fact for years, refusing to believe that without knowing who he was, where he came from, his family, or his past- that he was already dead. When he finally accepted this fact, panic surged within him again for the first time in years. And then, a horrible thought entered his mind. If he really was dead, if it really had been years since he had died, then no one knew who he was. No one knew where he was, who he was, how he died, how to free him, he would never get out, all of his thinking, remembering how to speak, it was all for nothing! He didn't even have the mercy of disappearing forever. And so, he sat for years, in his room that almost felt smaller than when he had first awoken. Drowning in thoughts that only became darker and sadder. Waiting for something, anything.

...

...

*click*