this is a big experiment. stick with me here.

He came to in the grassy field, surrounded by dandelions, the sun bathing him in its brilliant glow and the lofty clouds drifting across the bright blue sky.

He groaned and sat up, taking in his surroundings. Pastoral hills stretched on and on into the distance, meeting the horizon as if it was a green sea. Nary a speck was to be found, whether it be tree, animal, or any indication of human presence. No, he was alone with the world.

He gathered himself and stood, twisting around in a circle, green, and green and green. He breathed in, taking in the scent of unbounded nature, the smell of pollen and weeds filling his nose. He chuckled, a smirk tugging at his lips, and he began to walk.

He didn't know how far he walked, nor for how long, but eventually he spied a black dot far off in the distance. He paused momentarily, unsure of himself (a mirage?), and with an inward shrug carried forth towards the tiny black dot.

The closer he came, the larger it grew, until he was standing before it, gazing into the darkness through its windows and at its withering wooden frame. It was a building, all black, looking perhaps like a tavern one would find in the old southwest. It was not very tall, not very wide; its roof rose up on either side in a triangular fashion, wearing its singular circular window like a badge of honor.

There was no door, just a gaping rectangle that led into the darkness. He hesitated, unwilling to give up the warmth of the sun for the uncertainty that lay within. But he steeled his resolve, mounted the steps that squeaked under his feet, and stepped inside.

He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness as he inched forward. Gradually, the contours of the room became apparent to him. Overturned tables marked the room, chairs strewn about in careless fashion, there seemed to be the remnants of a bar straight ahead, though its contents seemingly long emptied. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, striking the dust that pervaded the room with an almost ethereal glow. He moved to the bar and placed his hand on the old counter-top, imprinting on it the outline of his hand.

"There you are…"

He jumped, the voice startling him out of his reverie. He whirled around and was confronted by the sight of an old man, his beard long and white, seated against the wall in the far corner of the room.

"Who are you?" he asked cautiously.

The old man chortled at that, taking in the appearance of the boy that now stood before him. The boy saw the way his face wrinkled prominently and the dust swirled around his head, and frowned.

"You don't remember…" the old man said, smiling and shaking his head.

"Don't remember what?" the boy demanded, taking a step closer.

"Oh," the man said, his mouth open and looking up at the ceiling, scrutinizing it as if it were the first time he'd seen it.

"What is this place?" the boy asked, studying the faded floorboards at his feet.

"This is where we go…"

"What?"

"You aren't the first one to come here, you know," the man nodded at him.

"What do you mean? There were others here?" the boy questioned.

The man nodded. "Long ago…"

They remained silent for while. The boy stepped around the discarded tables and chairs, running his hand along the dusty counter.

"Where did they go?" the boy finally spoke.

The man slowly shook his head. "Away."

The boy pulled up a chair and sat before the man. "What does that mean?"

The man looked up at him and his eyes grew wide.

"You, it was you."

"What do you mean? What was me?" the boy leaned closer.

"You were here…before."

The boy furrowed his brow, uncertain of what to make of the man before him.

"How long have you been here?" the boy inquired. The man smiled at him, giving him a knowing look.

"Long," he responded. The boy felt a tingle run down his neck and looked back at the entrance, there was nothing there.

"How do I leave?" the boy asked.

"You can't," the man's smile grew wider.

"Why not?"

"You can't leave Hell."

The boy drew back, as if burned. "I would've expected Hell to be a bit hotter."

The man was silent for a few moments, and then he spoke. "Your friends are all dead."

"Who are my friends?"

"They aren't coming, that's for sure," the man continued, "an all around bad show."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Nobody said art had to be in good taste," the man said.

"Huh?" the boy tilted his head questioningly.

"Crito, we owe a cock to Asclepius; make this offering to him and do not forget."

"What are you talki-"

"I did everything for you," the man croaked. "Alright then, let's offload those stealthy Jews from their trains."

The boy stood and backed away from him as the man began to laugh.

"You – you don't understand," the man gasped. "It's all a big nothing – "

The boy moved across the room, compelled by the maniacal cackling behind him, towards the small open doorway tucked away at the opposite end of the room. He peered around the opening and discovered a set of stairs. Tentatively he ascended, the laughter behind him fading away into nothingness as he entered the cramped second story.

There was nothing there but a small wooden box resting against the circular window pane. He moved forward, his hands shaking as he pulled open the top.

A shrill scream broke through the silence. "Your friends are all dead!"

Inside lay a rose.