Sandrine felt like she wasn't alive.
She didn't feel like she was totally dead either.
It was a strange state of non-existance, a strange irreality, as if watching the world through a screen, as if she wasn't here herself. She heard as if through cotton, she saw as if through gauze, and her thoughts were a strangle muddled mess of incoherent bits and pieces.
She wasn't exactly feeling anything. It wasn't good or bad.
It was just that she felt like the light was going out.
The dark wasn't scary or menacing, it was just here, and growing more present each moment.
Who was she ?
Sandrine.
Maybe.
She thought that she had regained memories recently, but it might have been an illusion. What was there to remember ?
Nothing.
She was nothing.
Nobody knew her. Nobody remembered.
If she didn't exist for anyone, then she shouldn't exist at all.
A story without readers is nothing at all.
Nothing.
She was nothing.
The darkness grew bigger again, the world tainted black.
