So I'm not dead.

Heavenly.

That's the word I would use to describe my surroundings. They're white, infact, whiter than white. Is this the light you supposedly see before everything comes to a halt? The inevitable end? Is this all it is, a psych ward clone?

Am I in an actual psych ward? My eyes dart to my hands then clothing, examining myself only hoping to see some sort of straight jacket. Nonetheless, my clothes reflect the same white as the area around me. Looking down, it's as if there's no true floor, just an end of the dimension. No crevices or sharp edges where a wall could meet the ground. Purely a state of void. I swallow the lump forming in my throat as my mind jumps from each mind-bending scenario. In an effort to ground myself, I reach my arms out, expecting to feel a wall.

You blind idiot. The tips of my fingers make contact with the nothingness, as a pit of disappointment opens in my stomach. The last thing I remember before entering the void was the sound of screams. Who they belonged to, however, was the golden question. Could they have been mine? How would I know?

Maybe scream, you simpleminded buffoon. I gazed my eyes around my surroundings again, the tiniest part of me hoping they'd changed. They didn't. Closing my eyes, I let my lids slowly become heavy and my chest rose with the deep inhalation of air. I breathed in the confusion. I breathed in the disappointment. I breathed in the fear. I breathed in every waking thought telling me this was my new forever. And when it all stacked up, I screamed.

No echoes. Of course, because why would a space of nothingness have anything for sound waves to bounce off of. I open my eyes, viewing the same space as before. This will get old quick.

If my screaming told me anything besides that, it was that whoever uttered the noise that previously pierced my ears wasn't me. I run the pads of my fingers along the length of my torso, connecting with the silky white fabric falling from my limbs. It was cold to the touch, despite the room exhibiting a comfortable temperature itself. Neither hot nor cold, somewhat unidentifiable, yet, comfortable.

My hands slowly move upwards, following the curve to my waist, up to the ridges of my rib cage, over the swells on my chest until reaching my neck. Unlike the fabric, it's warm, begging to be touched. My fingers linger along the side of my neck, as I slowly breathe in once more, this action being the only sense of normalcy I've felt in the passing moments.

They take their path once more, finding the original target. My pulse.

1…2…3…4….5…So, I'm not dead.

I don't know if it was the fact that I was expecting no pulse to be felt, proving my logical explanation that I, Bia Fallon, am dead, and this existential hell hole I'm in is the afterlife, but alas, I wasn't and it wasn't and that set me…off. My hands bolted from my neck, punching at my sides. Connecting with the tender olive flesh, hit after hit, I wanted nothing but to feel the pain running through my veins. I felt the bruises form under my skin and the pounding became heavier, each time.

I felt a scratch in my throat, implying that I had been screaming as I declared war on my body. It didn't take my mind away from my motives. I was frustrated, like a little kid and a temper tantrum…just a little more extreme.

My fisted right hand found its way to the loosely falling crew neck of my silky white shirt. Seeing nothing but red despite the white void around me, my fingers clenched around the hemline, hanging on as if it were the edge of a cliff and I was about to fall. That comparison left my mind seconds after it was made as I ripped the shirt from my body. The sound of the fabric separating made a distinctive noise, sticking out to me in my fit of rage. I gasped as I felt a breeze of air brush my exposed skin, following the quick movement of the shirt.

My right hand gravitated to the other end of the freshly torn fabric, both hands now pulling and tugging at it as if it were a rope. And suddenly, the idea my body had been conveying to me finally crossed my mind. I'm going to kill myself.

A sinister smirk creeped its way to my face, stretching across my mouth as I moved the fabric to my warm neck. It was long enough to wrap twice around with some extra room, and when I felt the slightest bit of constraint on my air passage I found myself bringing my actions to a stop. I blinked, I swallowed that pesky lump in my throat, and then I continued. My right hand began pulling one end of the fabric that had once caressed and cared for my body, as my left did the same. I felt the pinch of my skin between the creases in the shirt and my head began to feel this new sense of pressure.

Pull harder Bia.

Putting all of my strength into it, I continued to strangle myself until the usual darkness that falls upon me as I closed my eyes took over everything that I was in at that moment.

'Attempt FAILED: Please await further instruction before continuing.'