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For a short eternity, there is nothing. No sight, no sound, no air. They do not scream. There is no air to scream with, no light for their eyes to find purchase on. There is nothing.
No, that's not quite true. There was someone, someone by their side. Someone they'd followed, that they didn't want to leave. He was important, wasn't he? He was special, special enough to keep them. So why can't they remember his face? His voice? His name? Fuck, they can't even remember his name, they can't remember anything, and the more they dig, the worse it gets. There's a strange feeling spreading through their body, their limbs, their too-cloudy mind, like the edges of them are slowly fraying.
Is there an opposite to "becoming"? He would have known, they think. He liked words, liked to pick the right ones. He always made them fit together.
This isn't helping. The more they try to think about him, the more they can feel themself slipping away, unravelling and twisting apart. What was their name again? What happened to them?
A kind hand, stroking their back. A voice, her voice, dreamily murmuring into their ear. "Don't worry, I'm here to help" the hand turns insistent, pushing them forward. "You'll be all better soon". One final push, and---
.
.
.
They try to gasp for a breath that won't come, their hands clutching at the fabric of their uniform for lack of anything else to hold onto.
It's blue. That had meant something, they think. Blue always has a meaning. Like music! And flowers, those have meaning, don't they? Names, and meanings, and names with meanings. And something about curtains? That doesn't make any sense, but still, they're sure. Blue was important. Theirs. If things are blue, they matter.
The longer they look out at the void, the more sure they become that it's not actually nothing they're looking at. Maybe it's their eyes getting used to the dark as they unravel, maybe it's the dark getting used to their eyes, but slowly, they start to make out shapes. Strings, looping and twisting around themselves in sprawling, slanted shapes, flourishes and knots and waves that seem like they should repeat, but never quite do. Suddenly, it's the easiest thing in the world to reach out for the closest of them and twist their hand between the threads of the tangle.
It tastes purple and teal under their fingertips. No, wait... that can't be right. It... smells shiny? Probably not. It feels smooth, like silk slipping through their fingers. Yes, that seems a little better. Most importantly, it's solid, moving but not ripping loose as they fist their hands in it, arms tugging and moving with a sudden urgency until they're safely wrapped in it, enjoying the way it slips over and into their skin. They should be more like that, they decide. Slippery. Hard to get caught on.
It's making the blue go away though, and that's not good. They need that. They'll need to find more, be more blue again. Blue matters.