The Cell sat at his desk, flicking his pen between his fingers.

His brain was scattered, trying to fit too many ideas into one.

The paper that sat before him had scribbled out half-sentences.

The fireplace cackled at his writer's block.

The thud of what he assumed was his own heartbeat started to ring out in his ears.

The cacophony of noise surrounding him like a booing crowd.

He felt like he was standing next to a burning train with screaming passengers.

He clasped his hands over his ears, trying to drown out the noise.

Somehow it made everything louder, his hands acting as amplifiers.

The Cell slammed his eyes shut and raised his head, preparing to slam it on the table.

But as he leaned back, one of his chair legs snapped in half and he fell.

He collapsed on the floor, silence replacing the horrendous screaming of his brain.

He lay there for a moment, trying to regain his thoughts and order them so they could be properly reviewed.

His writings had continued since he had the meeting with the visitor.

They had begun to stray away from why he initially started, he didn’t know if that was a good thing though.

He sighed and picked himself up.

Looking down at his chair, he deduced that he would need another to replace it.

He went to the door and grabbed a coat from the wooden coat hanger.

It was a large black trench coat made of wool, something you might see someone wear in a noir film.

He wasn’t attempting to conceal himself from anyone, it just made him feel a little special about owning something like it.

He grabbed his hat, placed it on his head, and opened the door.

His footsteps echoed in the hallway as he made his way to the other end.

When the Cell reached out to grab the doorknob to outside, his hand thudded against the wall instead.

The Cell looked up and saw that the door to the rest of the world was still missing.

It had been months since it had disappeared, but sometimes he thought it might reappear, and he could leave his room once more.

He remembered when You used to walk through the door.

Those meetings were his favorite.

He sighed and walked back to his office.

The only other door was down the adjacent hallway to a bathroom.

He never used it since the Cell never needed to eat or drink, and the mirror had been shattered long ago.

Rubbing his knuckles as the Cell remembered that night, he shook away the memory, not wanting to lull himself back to the horrible portrait.

He tossed the coat and hat back onto the coat hanger and looked out the window.

There was always a snowstorm outside, flecks of white rushing past his window as if he were on a high-speed train.

He couldn’t see very far out, because the sun never came up.

Sometimes he believed he was somewhere the sun couldn’t reach, and his memories of what was outside had been slowly escaping him.

Maybe that was what fueled his fire, his fleeing memories that wanted to sacrifice themselves to keep him warm.

Turning around the Cell saw that the chair had rebuilt itself, still toppled over, but he could set it back up himself.

He didn’t know exactly how his chair could do that, or anything else in his office for that matter.

He might rip open a book and tear pages out, they always grew back out like hair.

He once threw down a bookshelf and dragged it into the fire to burn the whole building down.

Not only did the fire refuse to spread, but he watched as the bookshelf slid across the floor and placed itself back to where it sat.

He had tried several times to burn down his office, escape attempts he tried to justify inside his weary mind.

But the fire, as big and mighty as it was, did not dare to escape its house of bricks.

The only thing that did not seem to disregard all laws of reality was himself.

The scars on his hands were mementos of that, and the burn marks up and down his left leg still stuck out like the fire that burned him.

There were many nights where the Cell replaced sleep with fits of tears, he had no bed, so he slept in his chair, head on the desk.

He felt his back creak every time he moved, a pain so bad that the simple act of getting up began an exercise.

His life was turning into an eternal hell.

The Cell wondered whether he could die in here, although he knew he shouldn’t.

The Cell heaved himself back onto the chair, now upright and ready for his return.

The paper on the desk seemed to plead for something close to writing to be forged upon its silky white face.

But the Cell frowned.

He thought of the cycle he was caught in, the endless loops he seemed to find himself running around.

His attempts to write about it have been futile and possibly useless, they came with the side effect of stealing his mental workings.

Every aspect of happiness or sadness he wrote, wiped away the emotion.

If he had written about the sadness he had of a dog dying, he was sure that he would be left feeling nothing for the dog.

Not as if the dog had never died, but that the Cell had never cared for the dog.

If he had written about a love he had for another person, that love would disappear the second he placed the last word on the page.

Was the same true for the cycle?

If he continued to write about it, would he continue to burn away the very thing that torments him?

Part of him wished it to be true, but another part of him was terrified of it.

The cycle had become a thing of comfort, the only thing he could rely on.

It could’ve been described as emotional insurance, no matter how troubled or devastated he might’ve been, he could count on the cycle to still be there.

But the cycle also brought pain and confusion, like an abusive husband.

Was this an unhealthy relationship he was feeding?

He shook his head, that wasn’t it.

He must be crazy by now; the time he had spent in his office was far too long for a healthy person.

He wished to escape, and live the adventures he might’ve written about.

The Cell wanted to know what was truly good for him.

He had prayed before for answers.

He wanted to know why he found himself stuck in this room.

Why did the mirror show a hideous beast, deserving to be put down and forgotten?

Why whenever he was able to leave the room, he knew he would come back eventually because the world outside rejected him.

Few people truly respected the Cell, but it was when he needed them the most that his door disappeared.

He thought about You, thought about going outside and embracing You.

The Cell wanted to cry in arms that he trusted with holding his broken body.

Somehow, You had become the thing most comforting and most torturous in the Cell's mind.

It was You that he wanted the most, but because of You, he has pain.

His body felt pain every second of his life.

When the bone wasn’t aching, the muscle was sore, and when the muscle wasn’t sore, his skin would inflame.

Comfort was not something he could ever physically obtain.

Instead, he wished for emotional comfort.

He wished that he cared enough about that his body didn’t matter anymore.

But every time that someone attempted to bring him that comfort, he was left colder and alone.

The Cell sat at his desk, lost in the vast emptiness that was his soul.

There was nowhere for him to go.

He reached out and brought the pen to his paper and began writing.

After a few words, he stared at what he had written.

His eyes began to water and he thrust the pen into his leg.

He screamed in pain.

His leg bled down, staining pants that would wash itself away.

He did not feel the throbbing in his leg.

All he could feel was the breaking of his spirit.

Hand still on his pen, he yanked it out of his leg.

Looking at his desk, a blank sheet of paper appeared.

He brought his shaking hand up to the paper, dripping blood all over it.

He attempted to write a story about an old man's love for his garden, but all that he saw was red blood smeared on the paper.

How could he write about something that truly reflected his pain?

He dropped the pen, body shaking, he was getting cold although the fire was getting brighter.

He opened his mouth and screamed, “Help! Please I need help!”

“My leg, please!”

The Cell yelled out for You, hoping that You would appear beside him, tend to his wound, and hold him in his arms.

“I’m trapped! Help!”

“I can’t walk! Don’t forget about me!”

He remained alone in his room.

His screams echoed among the walls, returning to the mouth they fled from.

But there is nothing You can do for him and the pain that he feels while writing these words, You are only now seeing this after it had already been written.

All You can do is try to find him once You realize what has happened.

The pain that You bring him is directly tied to the joy You bring him.

But that isn’t your fault.

He loves You, and cares about You.

He just doesn’t know how much.