Pulp Fiction

EL RITCH

"How would explain your mentality?"

-Insufferable.

"Your existence?"

-Pointless.

"Your contributions to someone's life?"

-Worthless.

"Your personality?"

-Infuriating.

Well done, lad.

The words drifted through his mind, circling like vultures over a carcass, his carcass. They whispered, screamed, taunted, but above all, they lingered.

They were the only thing anchoring him to himself.

Because here—wherever here was—nothing made sense.

His body had no weight, no shape, no presence. He floated, suspended in an endless abyss, a realm of nothing. There was no sky, no ground, no walls to hold him in, but he was trapped all the same.

His thoughts unraveled, spilled out, and he was left to watch.