For a time, all he knew was darkness and the cold, gritty floor. Sand clung to his lips, his palms, his knees. His eyes were unseeing, though his eyelids often remained shut tight. From one corner of his room to the next, he counted fifteen footsteps. The ceiling greeted his palm when he stretched his hand overhead, and the floor was riddled with grit. It's all he'd known, nearly all he'd ever known since the burning.
Memories faded and blurred from years long since past, but he remembers numbers, his name, the color red. Otherwise, all Matt had were four solid walls, a dusty floor with a small hole in one corner, and a smooth high ceiling. Sometimes, he listened to noises from beyond his place, furious shrieks and howls of terror, sometimes sobbing. It sounded so unpleasant to step outside, where it was unsafe.
Matt was perfectly fine where he was- he remembered crying well enough to want no part in it. Sometimes, all he did was sleep and dream of darkness. Occasionally, memories from the burning resurface, branding the color red into his mind for endless stretches without reprieve. More often than not, he didn't dream at all, neither slept. On those days, he'd lie in wait for something to happen, paced the floor for all its fifteen steps over and again, recited numbers, or sat on the floor and made shapes in the sand.
In retrospect, he'd insist he didn't have to wait for long. Not for what it was worth, not for who and what he'd gained. Red.
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