Waylon stirred slowly, consciousness returning in fragmented waves. Cold, damp earth pressed harshly against his cheek, his skin numb from prolonged exposure. The soft lapping of water against stone filled his ears, a cruel reminder of his recent ordeal.
His eyes fluttered open, vision blurred and distorted. Gradually, reality filtered back into focus, bringing with it searing pain radiating from every nerve in his battered body. [Still alive, huh…?]
Groaning weakly, Waylon dug his fingers into the gravelly shore, struggling to find the strength to move. Each effort to shift his body sent agonizing waves coursing through his limbs, and he nearly blacked out again. [Damn it…why won't it just end already?]
Clenching his jaw, he forced himself to move, using only his arms to drag himself slowly out of the icy shallows. His injured leg scraped against the rocks beneath him, drawing a sharp gasp as fresh pain shot through his thigh. Waylon paused, panting heavily, eyes squeezed shut against tears of anguish.
Rolling onto his back, he glanced down and felt bile rise in his throat. The claw of the monstrous insect still protruded grotesquely from his thigh, embedded deep in torn flesh. Blood caked the wound, mixing with dirt and grime, turning his pale skin a gruesome crimson-brown.
"Oh… god…" Waylon whimpered, his voice cracking. His hands shook violently as he reached toward the claw, hesitating repeatedly. Each breath came quick and shallow as he braced himself for what he knew would come next.
[You have to do it. You have no choice.]
Gritting his teeth, he wrapped trembling fingers around the chitinous spike and pulled sharply. The claw tore free with a sickening wet sound, sending fresh blood spurting from the wound. An animalistic scream ripped from Waylon's throat, echoing through the empty cavern as his vision flashed white.
He lay motionless for what felt like an eternity, pain radiating in relentless pulses. Sweat mixed with tears streamed down his face, but he hardly noticed. Only slowly did the agony recede to a dull, throbbing ache.
Shivering uncontrollably, he forced himself upright, stripping off his tattered, blood-soaked shirt. Weak and shaking, he ripped the fabric into crude strips, binding them clumsily around the gaping wound. The makeshift bandage soaked through quickly, but it slowed the bleeding enough to keep him conscious.
Finally done, Waylon sagged back against the cavern wall, eyes glazed and unfocused. Only now, with the immediate crisis fading, did he begin to take stock of his surroundings. The familiar luminescent glow of the insects illuminated the cavern dimly, painting the walls in faint orange hues.
His heart lurched as he remembered the chitinous creatures, and panic tightened his throat. He whipped his head around, frantically scanning every shadow for signs of danger. But nothing emerged from the gloom—just empty, oppressive silence broken only by his ragged breathing.
[No monsters…thank god.]
Waylon relaxed slightly, though fear still gnawed deep in his gut. Looking around more carefully, he saw the cavern had no visible entrance or exit—no clear explanation for how he'd even arrived here. His heart sank further, dread coiling in his chest.
"How…how did I even get here?" he whispered aloud, voice thin and weak. His head spun as he tried to recall, but his memories offered only flashes of pain and darkness, nothing coherent. [Did the river carry me here?]
The softly glowing bugs illuminated only a small radius around him, the rest swallowed by darkness. He crawled to the water's edge, peering hopelessly into the black expanse beyond. The cavern seemed endless, the water vanishing into impenetrable shadow, with no clue of where it led.
Turning slowly, he searched the shoreline desperately for his pack, his dagger—anything to cling to. But his belongings were gone, lost to the water or torn from him during his fall. A wave of crushing helplessness flooded him, leaving him breathless.
"No…no, no, no…" he murmured brokenly, voice cracking as tears welled up uncontrollably. [All of it's gone. I have nothing left.]
Waylon slumped against the rough cavern wall, eyes hollow and unseeing. Reality crashed over him, overwhelming his battered psyche. Each cruel realization—his isolation, injuries, helplessness—chipped away at his fragile grasp on sanity.
"It's not real…" he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head back and forth slowly. "None of this is happening…"
But the searing pain, the cold earth, and the persistent ache of despair argued otherwise. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms as frustration and anguish spilled over.
"Why am I here?!" he screamed, voice echoing uselessly off uncaring stone. His sobbing breaths came faster, chest heaving painfully. "I didn't ask for any of this!"
He rocked back and forth, lost in his spiraling despair. The agony, the fear, the loneliness—all crashed into him relentlessly, dragging him toward oblivion. His mind fractured beneath the weight, no longer able to deny the brutal truth of his new reality.
[I'm never getting home. My family…they're probably dead, too.]
Waylon curled into a fetal position, trembling uncontrollably. He shut his eyes tightly, desperate to block out everything around him—the endless darkness, the pain that burned through every inch of his exhausted body.
[What's the point of fighting anymore?]
Minutes blurred into hours as he lay there motionless, consumed by overwhelming hopelessness. Slowly, exhaustion claimed him, dragging him toward merciful unconsciousness. His breathing slowed, his heartbeat weakening steadily.
[Maybe…this is better. Just sleep, Waylon.]
His final coherent thought drifted toward oblivion, and a grim sense of peace settled over him. If this was death, he welcomed it, hoping to never again open his eyes.
[I'm so tired…please let this end.]
The soft luminescence of the insects flickered gently across his unmoving form, casting ghostly shadows. The cavern fell quiet, indifferent to his suffering, swallowing his silent plea for release.
He sat there motionless at the water's edge, staring vacantly at the slow ripples disturbed only by his shallow breaths. Time had become meaningless, blending seamlessly with the shadows around him. The cavern, indifferent and silent, watched him suffer in quiet solitude.
His throat burned with thirst, a sharp, constant reminder of his dire state. [How long has it been since I drank anything…or ate?] His stomach growled painfully in response, empty and hollow.
His brows knitted together as he tried to remember clearly. The last time he'd eaten—[school breakfast?]—seemed like a distant, almost surreal memory. He could faintly recall the taste of cheap waffles and syrup, mundane yet comforting.
Counting slowly, Waylon began to piece together how much time might have passed. He remembered waking in that first cave, completely disoriented, then the frantic battle with that monstrous insect, and finally his escape down the underground river. [But how long was I out in the first cave…and after the river knocked me out?]
Panic and confusion clawed at him as the realization set in: he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Days, perhaps? His body felt weak, painfully empty, as if starvation was already settling in.
[The note…] Waylon's eyes widened slightly. The strange note had clearly warned him not to eat or drink anything until his pills were gone. But the pack and those precious tablets were lost forever, scattered somewhere along the dark riverbed.
He frowned deeply, a troubling thought gripping him. [If that note was telling the truth, then I'm already doomed.] He'd been tossed helplessly into the river—surely water had gotten into his mouth. He'd swallowed at least a little, hadn't he?
Waylon shook his head, uncertainty gnawing at him. He couldn't clearly remember ingesting anything, but the river had been relentless, water surging around him. [If something was going to happen, it would've already…right?]
His lips felt cracked and dry, his tongue thick with thirst. Driven by instinct, Waylon carefully removed his shirt, now soaking wet from his earlier struggle. Twisting the fabric tightly, he wrung out the moisture, watching it drip into his cupped palm.
He stared warily at the small amount of water collected, hesitating. [What choice do I have?] he reasoned bitterly. Survival demanded risk, and he desperately needed relief.
Waylon lifted his hand, tasting the droplets. Cool relief filled his mouth, soothing his burning throat just slightly. Emboldened by the minor comfort, he drank again from the fabric, the tiny sips feeling almost heavenly.
He sat quietly for several moments, monitoring himself for any immediate reaction. His heart raced in anticipation, dread mingled with fragile hope. Yet nothing happened—no pain, no burning, nothing but gentle relief.
Encouraged, Waylon inched forward toward the dark water. It was still cold, rippling softly against his fingertips. [Maybe the note was wrong…or exaggerated?]
He cupped his hands and lifted a small amount of water to his lips. Drinking carefully at first, Waylon soon found himself gulping greedily, the cold liquid sliding down his throat like salvation. Each swallow brought fresh energy and clarity back to his weakened body.
"Maybe…maybe it wasn't so bad after all," he murmured softly, leaning back against the cavern wall. His parched throat was relieved, and for the first time since waking, he felt hopeful again.
That feeling, however, was brief and cruelly deceptive.
Without warning, a sudden sharp fire erupted in his gut, pain exploding violently from his stomach outward. Waylon doubled over instantly, clutching himself as a horrible burning sensation spread relentlessly through his core.
"Oh…oh god…!" he gasped, voice ragged and filled with terror. His body shook uncontrollably, muscles seizing as the fire inside intensified. He felt like he was being cooked alive, his blood boiling beneath his skin.
His flesh turned bright pink, inflamed and blistering as the mysterious water ravaged him from within. Waylon let out a raw, anguished scream, echoing harshly through the cavern. Blood began to seep from his mouth and nose, dripping onto trembling hands.
He clawed desperately at his stomach, fingernails tearing at his own flesh in frenzied agony. It felt as though thousands of burning needles pierced him from inside, tormenting nerves he hadn't even known existed. Tears streamed down his bloodied face, mixing with the crimson trails running from his ears and nose.
"No…please…make it stop!" he choked out between screams, voice breaking as he begged an uncaring darkness for mercy. His vision blurred, edges growing dark as the overwhelming pain shredded his consciousness.
The energy continued spreading, like writhing tendrils snaking out from his gut, searing every fiber of his being. Waylon twisted violently, spasming on the cavern floor, thrashing uncontrollably as his body tried vainly to reject the poison.
The sheer agony threatened to shred his sanity, obliterating all rational thought. Waylon's eyes rolled back as convulsions shook him mercilessly. Blood oozed through every pore, skin cracking and weeping crimson tears.
[I'm going to die…I'm really dying!]
Yet some desperate instinct within him rallied against the madness, fighting hopelessly against the unstoppable force consuming his body. Waylon gritted his teeth hard enough to crack them, focusing every ounce of his willpower inward, fighting to contain the scorching energy ravaging him from within.
[Stop…please…just stop!]
But it was a futile battle—one that his weakened, battered body stood no chance of winning. The fiery poison was relentless, spreading like molten iron, burning away everything in its path. His heart pounded painfully, blood surging violently through his veins, threatening to burst forth.
Waylon arched backward, mouth open in a silent scream as his senses shattered entirely. His body lifted partially off the cavern floor, rigid with uncontrollable spasms. Blackness clawed at the edges of his mind, darkness rapidly closing in.
With a final convulsion, Waylon collapsed limply to the ground, his battered form twitching weakly as consciousness slipped rapidly away. The agony began fading as oblivion mercifully took hold, swallowing him completely.
His battered body lay motionless by the water's edge, still bleeding from countless tiny wounds, skin an unnatural shade of inflamed red. Only his shallow, strained breaths betrayed any lingering life.
In the darkness of unconsciousness, Waylon drifted silently, beyond reach of pain or fear. The world receded, distant and meaningless now, leaving only quiet emptiness behind.