It can’t see, unfortunately.

The empty box it occupies is cold and pitch black, with not a single ray of light escaping.

Suddenly, the stomach turns warm, the hands damp from sweat.

Out of the darkness, large tendrils wrap around the hands, their wetness turning into a sticky web around the arms.

Soon, a giant blob of a scolding, tacky substance clings onto the back, spreading throughout the body like tar clinging to skin.

The stomach turns searing hot as the mass grows and melds with the body.

It grows hotter and hotter, and with it the vapidness of a black hole.

Its voice becomes more hoarse, ravenous, roaring and crying to be satiated, thrashing about in the room before feeling the familiar touch of a switch.

I flinch as the small bathroom I’m in is suddenly filled with light and flaccidly stand there in the mirror, glasses cracked and lopsided on my face, my dark hair frayed, my tan skin unnaturally pale.

The blackness of my pupils shrink to a small circle as the whiteness of my eyes return and I’m bemused that it wasn’t as bad as the other times. But I still stare past the human figure standing in the mirror and at the broken glasses on my face, lamenting that even with the light, I, unfortunately, still can’t see.