Wasted by Grief
The paper felt fragile in his hands, as if it might crumble under the weight of its words. The ink smudged slightly where his trembling fingers had touched it, but the message was still clear, etched into his mind like a whisper he couldn’t escape.
You lived among shadows, lost in a haze.
Each moment a fragment, each breath a maze.
The faces you loved are no longer near,
Wasted by time, by grief, by fear.
Remember, neglect, the life you once led,
The answers you seek may be better left dead.
He read it again, his lips moving silently over the words. There was a weight to the poem, a feeling of inevitability that pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. Who had written it? And why? It offered no comfort, only questions.
Setting the paper down on the ground, he turned his gaze around the room. White. Everything was white. The walls, the floor, the ceiling—all stark and featureless. There were no windows, no doors, no sign of where he might be or how he had arrived. The only disruption in the endless blankness was the small rectangular box embedded in the wall, the one that had delivered the letter an hour earlier.
Or had it been an hour? Time didn’t feel real. It stretched and collapsed in on itself, leaving him bewildered and hollow. He closed his eyes and tried to think, to remember, but his mind was a void as grim as the room around him. There were no memories, no images to hold onto. He didn’t even remember his name.
He ran his hand through his hair—short, rough—like a habit he didn’t remember. He studied his hands, their calloused palms and faint scars, hoping they might tell him something about the person he had been. But nothing was to be found.
“Where am I?” he whispered aloud, his voice rasping in the stillness. The words echoed back at him, hollow and mocking.
He stood, pacing the small space. The room offered nothing, no clues, no escape. The box in the wall clicked softly, drawing his attention. His stomach clenched as he approached the wall, his bare feet making no sound against the cold floor. The lid of the box slid open, revealing a small tray. On it was a pill—round, black, and unassuming.
He hesitated, staring at it. The letter had come first, a riddle he couldn’t solve. And now this. Was it connected? Was it safe? He didn’t know, but the oppressive silence of the room offered no alternatives. Either he stayed here, alone with his fragmented thoughts, or he took the risk.
His fingers trembled as he picked up the pill. It felt cool and smooth against his skin, lighter than he expected. He sat back down at the table, the letter lying beside him like a taunt.
“Wasted by time, by grief, by fear,” he murmured, his gaze flicking between the pill and the words.
His throat felt dry, his heart pounding against his ribs. He closed his eyes and tipped the pill into his mouth, swallowing it down with a sip of water from the plastic cup that had arrived with his last meal. The taste was bitter, lingering on his tongue like a warning.
For a moment, nothing happened. He stared at the blank wall, the silence pressing in again. Then the world began to blur, the edges of the room dissolving into shadows. His head coiled, and he gripped against the thick air hopelessly, breathing in shallow gasps.
As the darkness closed in, a single thought flickered in his mind, unbidden and chilling: What if I don’t want to remember?
