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Here is the beginning of a somewhat morbid short story I've been writing. Don't ask me why I chose it. I really don't know, just random inspiration maybe. Anyways, let me know how it sounds, this is only the very beginning, I only started on the thing yesterday, so I have a lot of unpolished stuff.







It had been two days. He sat in the middle of the cold floor, his mind clear. It surprised him as he realized this. It was cold, and the air smelled damp and earthy, kind of like it did after it rained, just danker, like a cave. He then remembered that he was in the basement. The only cave he had been in was in Colorado, he remembered the fresh mountain air before, and then the change in pressure, atmosphere, and quality of the air as he and a bunch of other people followed the tour guide into the cave. “The Cave of the Winds” he remembered the brochure. His mom had hated the cave, she hated the dark, the claustrophobic spaces, the smell of the air, so much like the basement now smelled. A wave of grief swept over him now, as he remembered his family. He had tried to keep them out of his mind the past few days, trying think of anything, focus on anything that would keep them off of and out of his mind. But he now knew, he was fully aware that they were all dead. His family was dead. He said this to himself out loud, barely audible. And then he broke down again, tears running down his face in torrents. He was only 16. Still a boy. Even though he once thought that this was a large number, he felt so young and helpless. He felt lost. He was tall, taller than most men, but not tall enough to stand out in a crowd. He was not naturally muscular, and his tall and thin frame made him look even weaker than he was. He had a thin face, one not particularly striking, his tear stained, dark, shallow eyes, and pale face, made him look much older than he was, like an old man.