Hard soled footsteps echoed in the darkness.

… LOUDER …

… softer …

… Approaching …

… Receding …

… In unison …

… At random …

… Solitary …

That was his favorite, a single pair of footsteps echoing lonesomely in the darkness. It was the only sound he liked. The only sensation he lived for.

Clip … Clap … Clip … Clap.

Regular or irregular, fast or slow, soft or strong, it did not matter, to him it was a soothing metronome beating a comforting rhythm into his life.

It receded and he was alone in the silent darkness.

He was blind. He was numb. He was severely burned. Only his hearing remained and he chose to be selective, listening only to the footsteps, ignoring all other sounds. He knew the doctors and nurses spoke to him, but he chose not to hear. He only wanted the soft comforting darkness and silence of the womb with nothing more than the steady, assuring lub-dub of his mother’s heartbeat.

Consciousness was not something he wanted. Consciousness meant memories. Memories meant pain. Pain meant suffering. He preferred not to suffer. He had suffered too much.

I wrote this back in November 2005 as part of my attempt to participat in NaNoWriMo. It didn't go much further. I still don't know what to do with it.