The Awakening

David stirred in his sleep, groggy from a long day's work. The familiar hum of his ceiling fan lulled him into unconsciousness, the faint ticking of the clock a steady reminder of normalcy. But when he opened his eyes the next morning, the world he had known was gone.

He blinked in confusion. This wasn't his bedroom. He wasn't even sure where he was. The walls were white, sterile, like the kind you'd find in a hospital. His heart raced as he leaped out of bed, scanning the unfamiliar surroundings. It wasn't just the room that was different—it was everything. The air felt strange, heavy almost, like he was underwater. And there was a silence, an eerie, all-consuming silence that made his skin crawl.

"Mom? Dad?" David called out instinctively, his voice echoing off the walls, swallowed by the emptiness.

No response.

Panic started to rise. He scrambled to the window, hoping for something—anything—familiar. But the world outside was a barren wasteland. The sky, a deep shade of crimson, stretched endlessly. There were no trees, no roads, no signs of life. Only a vast desert of red sand stretching into infinity.

"What the hell is this?" David muttered to himself, his breath shallow and rapid.

He stumbled back, collapsing onto the bed that was not his own, desperately trying to calm his racing thoughts. He must be dreaming. This had to be some kind of bizarre nightmare. But the more he pinched himself, the more he realized it was real.

He was alone.