"I miss this. It never lasts long enough. Why do you always have to go away?"

A melody trickles from a sorrowful, feminine voice. A voice of no source, the disembodied thing smoothly reverberates across this black, empty void of a home. Nothing contained within, the location is only comforted by the detached sounds, and the sparse, ethereal lights that rhyme with them. These lights, while aimless in structure, glow with variations of color and intensity— depending on what they are audibly matched along side. Yet, the lonesome space is not completely empty. While it physically lays barren, there floats a mired consciousness at its' core.

     The voice, although having not sung a word, curates it's sentences, it's words, as if her pitch was destined to be harmonious. This vocal stream soothed the mentally-clouded being at the place's core— lacking grasp on what the lone voice speaks. Their meaning pounding against the solidified gates past it's figurative eardrums. Any acknowledgment of her saddened melody fallen upon it's deafened ears, having little more response than faint smiles. Whatever this entity held at the void's core actually is, it's apparent that it presently slumbers. Evident as it is a waste, nevertheless, the disembodied words do not dispel.

    What flows from the harmonic sorrows range in their pitch, yet neither one sentence to the next connect. This incoherence could only confuse one if they were aware enough to comprehend it's verbal bouts. Phrases spewing into the dim void, their tone changing as much as their assumed age. Uncertainty is all but confirmed in these conflicting lines of intent. The sole thing that could be ascertained from any of this is who they are all directed towards.

"What do you mean you can't?!"

"Where have you been?"

"Haha! C'mon! Let's play outside!"

"Who are you?"

A swirling of voices, a contusion of mental strain rupturing from the once limited feminine melody. The reverb conjured from the growing collective of voices begin to quickly crowd the once empty void. An effect takes hold— for the worse. The core begins to toss and turn, it's slumber becoming disturbed. And, with this disturbance, a greater foothold takes effect.

    The once dim ethereal lights brighten with every new range in color explored, every new tone hit, and every new voice portrayed. Were these memories of the poor guy at it's core, or were they something else entirely?

    Eyes, ears, tongue, and lips; a series of disembodied senses conjugate at the core's center. Hampered as they may be in such a location—coaxed in the tar of lethargy—the thing at the center begins to truly awaken from it's slumber. Eyes were without eyelids and lips without a mouth to encompass it's tongue; physical manifestations of one's senses without the extra baggage of skin, muscle, and bone to distract from the collective maelstrom concocted around them. The once pitch black void a nigh-antithesis to it's former self, now basking in the bright colors of variety. The collective of concerns—considerations—grow ever louder, and quieter, towards a more comprehensive recipient: the person at this former void's core.

"It's nice to meet you, sir."

"No more questions. You'll begin tomorrow."

"It's the only thing I could afford for now, but this will play anything you'd ever want. I hope you like it, little guy."

"Hey, bro! Forget your homework again, huh?"

Bombardment of voices—conflicting and complementing—doesn't help in with these newly awoken senses, his drowsy senses. A dreadful sensation begins to bang at the edges of the once-thought endless void. The mixture of overlay, the undermining of any individual meaning, all of these overload the freshly formed senses from any sort of a restful awakening. Wishing for them to end, for a tide of peace and isolation to wash back over him, the calamity of words and voices immediately subside.

    All is quiet on the dimming front. Not a peep or a shine to speak of, nothing around to violate the manifested senses anymore. From one extreme to another, the poor guy finds himself left alone inside a darkened void— lost in a foreign land. Nevertheless, it is the what he, or of what these disembodied pieces can be considered a 'he', wanted.

    He had received a moment to think. The lidless eyes fidget back and forth amongst the dimly-illuminated darkness for some kind of familiarity to ground themselves by. Ears open as their dangling nerves from it's inner eardrums twitch and crinkle at the smallest noise, or each, perceived throughout the void— real or not. The lips dry without chapping and his tongue cold without feeling like so; all of the disembodied senses clamoring for a metaphorical tree-branch to latch onto, even if they are uncertain of what that might've been anyway.

    Left alone in the dark void with only the faintest of ethereal light to hang onto, his natural fear covered a deeper, stranger vein of quietude. This contradictory vein comforting the poor guy in the cruelest of ways, but it was enough to return him back into his ignorant rest. About to fade back into slumber, something else comes from the dark with a vengeance.

    Howls from an unknown wind cut through the still, stale void with a ravenous chill. The blades of air slices like paper thin blades as it's dissipation follows swiftly after.

     For what is taken as paper thin, these winds far weightier than the thinness of paper— each swipe of gust more visible than the last. The origins of the unknown wind unattainable in this groundless, dim space— only its exits a certainty. Neither light nor voice rebounded along with this baseless wind, yet something sure was coming— and coming quick.

     The disembodied body parts, unable to move or do much else than their intended purpose, float idly compact front-and-center of the ferocious wind. The eyes and ears cold, the lips chapped, and the tongue the driest it has or ever will be; all these senses can do is stay and observe it— whatever 'it' may be. It comes to pass.

    Yet, it comes in paces. First by the initial gusty swipes, and then their latent afterimages.

     Each slice holding over past the next, each building upon each other the closer they get.

     Unable to look away, the eyes grow strain as the cool veins redden at the optic's base.

     Chilling as stacks upon stacks of hanging gust marks outline something more to see than a harrowing violence to come.

    Hard to make out much through the veins at first, the collective of wind markings flow themselves into a grander visage than the prior lights could ever have.

     A hand. A chest? Maybe, even a pair of legs? An abstract creation to be sure, but one suffering from many faults.

    With the recent dimness greatly diminishing much of what these pupils could understand at the sight before them, lesser mentions pale in comparison. The airy illusion flourishes freely in the open space blanketed in front of them senses. Swaying with each new piece to the evolving imagery, the masterpiece accompanies 'its' arrival.

    The mysterious haunt has no more patience to give; this prelude draws to an unnatural close.

    "Agghhh!"

An aggressive screech of pain and frustration rupture out from the unfathomable blackness behind the unexplainable winds. Clearer than any day that the voice belonged a woman, but, more importantly, it couldn't have been from the same feminine voice as before. Vocal chords like these were stark and brash, quite different in nuance than any other voice from before either. The blood-curdling sound rattling the little extremities dangling from the disembodied senses gave them a unmistakable clue to the meaning behind the sound— or what was to follow.

    The ethereal light revives from the pitch-black depths to a triumphant spectacle such as this. Brighter enough to blind— if it were the sun itself—gives way to a myriad of colors not shared previously under the same vocals. The lights divvying up it's variations upon each section the wind slices had promptly outline for them.

     Sparkling white for the neck and arms, sapphire black for the pants, and an effortless steel grey for the shirt and shoes; the once vague abstraction now given shape. It was evident. Boggling the optics as to how they couldn't figure it out before, it became so simple so quickly.

     The outline describes that of a human-being brought to their knees. Even though more defined than before, the seeming artistic piece setting in front of those disembodied senses had their issues.

    A painting of water colors being the closest comparison to what laid in front of them at this point, yet another color stood strong against the grain. That being seen, there left another detail more dazzling than any that came before it: what the light shown above the neck.

    The face, like other attributes, ultimately blurry overall, it connected to the clearest section of the whole piece itself: the hair.

    Hair, luscious and flowing as the winds before it, colored against the grain of the peaceful solids and calming greys with it's deep maroon red color. It wasn't just a human, it was a painting of a woman.

    "Everything we did, did it ever matter to you? ... Do the details matter to the dreamer?"

The distress trembles through this breaking feminine voice with every new vowel. Beckoning for sympathy yet recoiling with tragedy, a light is shined clearer upon the afterimage once designated blurry.

     The tiniest details now given definition only made more evident what the downtrodden watercolor-appearance told so well: a catastrophe with a view.

    The heightened voice only grew in volume as it driveled into whispers. The ethereal lights shining with more bravado into every new inch and coloration that the afterimage reveals. The once murky details are now defined; the muddled steel grey shirt shown to be custom, armored covering, cut into ribbons with light laceration decorating the glowing snowy skin underneath. From cuts reaching to her neck, all the way down to her combat steel grey boots— the damage was great, the crimson basks in contention of the individual it is flowing out from. A lightly armored warrior collapsed in defeat—a body and protection in tatters—with only one thing more standing out profoundly against the limited gore. Tears stream from the afterimage's once vague face.

     Eyes blue as a summer's day, yet drenched in confusion and anguish of a whirlwind devastation transpired just prior. Tears as crystal clear as a mountain's stream couldn't be any further from how the disconnected, disembodied senses perceive such a sight to be. The afterimage grits her teeth as it becomes encumbered by the extensive injuries highlighted by the ethereal lights piercing through the depths of the void.

     The collection of floating senses fully awakened by the absolute confusion, the bafflement, that this abstract sight is providing them. Who is this? What happened? What's the point of this? What's all this about? Pain engrossing her face, the height of its purpose reaching through.

     As the afterimage moves with the wind's numerous slices increasing in their intensity, the visage of the defeated woman begins to go haywire— flashes of indistinguishable images radiate from where her face just was. Transiting of confusion to that of inherent fear, the disembodied senses float idly in place watching— unable to escape or turn away for they cannot move themselves. A face replaced with collages of memories on top of memories play in strobes.

     Hysteria fills behind the irises of the floating eyes and sparks of electrified shocks tear through the nerves hanging up to the ears. Moving memories, not produced from afterimages of the wind but from something far more concrete. Something quite recognizable to modern man, akin to that of a television screen as their window to this view. Yet, none of these 'memories' are familiar to the senses that witnesses them. The face of the former afterimage woman turns to the floating senses. It acknowledges their existence, and it doesn't take that kindly.

     With the variety of fervor transposing between all it's strobing, moving images, their own collective sounds of voices and transgressions focus themselves down upon the immobile senses. The disfigured face slingshots towards the unprotected senses in vigor.

    Trembling in uncertainty as they may, the senses at the core of this void are on a collision course with the facial maelstrom of visions.

    Unable to move or do much more than observe, that can only watch as the abdominal humanoid monstrosity closes in.

    Closer the face, clearer the vestiges upon it. The overlapping visions garner more and more of the floating eye's field of vision. They violently flash from one moment into another, context being of little concern to the projector of them.

   Encompassing all of the disembodied senses' capabilities, the overbearingness heightens.

     Before the onslaught of these vision can take hold, one speaks above the rest. The same voice of the woman this monstrosity was once before leaves her haunting last words.

"Now learn. Witness what I've left you."/"Now. Breathe deep, and Witness me."

Those words twist like a knife into the metaphorical heart at the void's center. Yet, it itself doesn't know as to why either.

    The face loses it's red lipstick-painted lips as it gives way to the parasitic growth that the strobing visions have become. Left with no way out nor any way to get out if they could, the disembodied senses are left to succumb to the parasitic collection of visions playing out across the humanoid's former face.

    Dozens upon dozens of quick recordings play on top of each other in-tandem. Loud enough to disrupt one's thoughts and close enough to been seen through one's eyelids, the disembodied senses are lost in these visions—these 'memories'—of people unknown. A variety of situations—good and bad, ugly and beautiful—with a variety of different people, different faces burning into the retinas of the eyes, and implanting themselves into the eardrums. All of it moving too fast; too many contentions of sounds clashing.

     Previously thought unknown instances becoming vague recollections; what's memory and what's implanted fictions blur wildly. Nothing had a lick of context to it, none of it made sense to the ironically-positioned disembodied senses. Has it been hours? Was it just a handful of minutes? They just wanted to run away. Nevertheless, the void held its tight grip for one moment longer.

    The void couldn't contain the madness much longer neither. The dark safe place begins to crack and crackle— the haunt begins to fall away. Natural—or unnatural in this case—light begins to seep in through the deepening cracks decorating the once smooth void space. It is time to move on. Regardless, the humanoid monstrosity isn't so keen to the idea. The inundation of random visages will not cease. Much unlike the ethereal light the void produced, the outside light ruptures the edges of the once thought endless void— huge pieces of rubble sprinkling down from heights once unfathomable.

     Between the debris conquering the monstrous humanoid to the breaking of the fear and comfort of the void, the strobing face of the humanoid lets out one last visual.

    A collective of visages fall to the depths of the televised facial facade in their last breathe. With that said breathe, the final visual gave way to the cleanest attempt at the floating senses.

    With little time left and the best effort produced, the final visual showed it's hand.

    A disheveled woman of long, unkempt hair stands at a pillar's edge at midnight. Hair as ashy as the surrounding electric lights coddling the night sky, distressed at something her darting, frightened eyes point towards beyond view. Soft glowing of floor lights in Victorian-dressings warm the brick pathways up to the pillar she is hunched beside.

    The building behind, the pillar remains loyal to, vaguely akin to something antiquate, governmental in design. Evidently a comfy complex of some kind, but a blaring alarm going off contradicts such an image of 'comfiness'.

    The woman—no older than twenty-five—dressed in white, from shoes up to neck— and completely devoid of any personality in attire or fashion. Many pillars behind the one she is hiding behind, yet just as white as the clothing she wears.

     Between the defensive closeness of her arms and the frantic motions of paranoia with her surroundings, the only thing visible printed upon the chest of her white shirt was nigh-impossible to read in full. Nevertheless, with what was there, it gives leeway to the best hint one could get: '——en—-wer—inst—-t—'.

     Before another discovery could be made, the humanoid crumbles under the weight of the rubble.

    All the oddities having come to an end and the dark cell crumbles its last vestiges, the disembodied senses are now free. Debris falling left and right, nothing making sense nor leaving a chance for there to be any. Left with that last vision by the monstrosity, the senses delayed reactions to the event around them doesn't last long. The dust drying the lips and tongue with tastes of fabric and tobacco to the ears exploding with the loudest bangs a collision could seemingly make, were just as confusing as what came before— but a far better end than the eyes could wish. The eyes, as poor as the man could be, look around frantically as it's companions dissipate and destruct beside him. Given a moment of reprieve and a slice of gusty silence, one last crackling takes it's bow. The retinas of those poor eyes move up—in the only direction they had left—and the last chunk of the destroyed void crashes down.

*Squoooshh!*

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

"Huh! Huff huff huff—"

Dripping in a cold sweat in the dark, John awakens from his uncomfortably modest couch. Slinging up from it's cushioned springs, John sits up straight as he stares into the partially dark living room. Hands clenching onto the sides of the closest couch cushions, troubles conjure up within his thoughts.