Darkness was inescapable. It was everywhere, constantly. Still, somehow, as some people may be so used to such a concept, Nightmare wasn't. He was more than well-aware of the unknown depths of darkness, even if he was a demon himself. Uncharted area, constant fear turning into hatred, all started in one place: darkness.
So why was sitting locked up in the basement cellar so different?
Mold grew rapidly on the ceilings, from constant leakage of the water tanks above. Cobwebs stuffed in corners of the claustrophobia-enducing room adorned the walls like Halloween on Christmas. Rotting flesh and dried blood painted the walls and floor. A record-breaking 37 cockroaches piled up in a frenzied attempt to live another day off of what used to be the last kid that was dumped and forgotten in the cellar. That was another thing. If you were locked in the cellar, your only hope of escape was another kid getting locked up in your place, which would refresh the warden's mind that you were still there. The last kid inside hadn't made it. Nightmare didn't want the same ending, but it didn't seem like he was in a lotta luck.
The absolute worst part about that dark hell, was that. Knowing this is your death place. Knowing you'll never see another flicker of sunlight again. Knowing you'll never be able to hug or hold anyone ever again. Knowing you'll never make a difference in people's lives, or ever exist, much less matter to somebody.
He'd heard plenty of stories when he was younger of people dying from starvation, or from disease and malnutrition. He knew that the stories were always sweetened over time, hiding the true turmoil and despair of the victims. He also knew he didn't have to worry about wondering what specifically they went through, because he was about to have his fill very soon, but unlike the stories his mother told him as a child, there wasn't any way his story would ever be told.
Nightmare didn't care. He didn't have anybody to go home to, nobody to even care that he'd disappeared. That's what the warden was good at. Finding broken, orphaned little children who had nothing. Who had nobody to miss them. Love them. To wonder.
Nightmare drove his fist into the wall, denting the metal studs and cracking the concrete underneath. How dare that bastard rip childrens' lives apart and torture them in sick, asinine ways. It was infuriating, and disgusting.
Just as he was about to punch the wall again, he heard a thick, loud click, followed by a long, deafening groaning sound and a flood of bright white light filled the room, blinding him for a few moments. Nightmare adjusted as well as he could to the light long enough to see the two tall, dark figures standing in the doorway. However, before he could react much, he felt a hard shove against his chest like a brick wall hit him and a cold, stinging pain shot up his back. It took him a second to realize that the brick wall that had hit him was moving barely as if struggling to breathe. He looked around and realized that he had been thrown on the floor, knocked over by another kid being shoved into him. A deep, groggy voice growled, "that's where you went, you little brat." A fist the size of his head closed on his collar yanking him to his feet and out of the cellar.
He was safe now...