Blake awoke with blood dripping down from the large wounds atop his blood-soaked blue polo shirt. He could barely move his muscles; in fact he wasn't moving at all. His eyes were open and searching around as he pushes himself upward. He could feel blood dripping down from his wounds and pouring into a small pool of crimson. The moment he raised his chin, he found a .44 magnum in the ground. His blurred vision finally began clearing. His environment began to be more visible.
He was in a concrete platform a few inches to his left, it was sloping down into a river. To the other direction, there were flickers of light inside the figures of silhouettes of different structures. He stopped looking around and stood up. He could feel the pain waving throughout his body. He noticed that his skin was pale and bruised. There were also clotted scars in his knuckles. He walked wobbly towards the gun and picked it up. He inserted it into his holsten and pressed his palms atop his wounds--it was senseless since the blood kept gushing out.
The surrounding was different from the usual. Though it was still an earthly place, it was all black and white. There were faint flickers of light glittering far in every direction that he looked. When he turned his body facing the city, he found the most glitters. There were hundreds--or maybe even thousands mixing together.
The moment he took a step forward, the excruciating pain bolted into different parts of his body--it was too much to handle. The wounds were deep and fatal but he was still standing straight--but quivering wildly. He could barely hold his ground yet he kept taking steps--one after the other unceasingly. Something was pulling him down--could it be gravity? No. It was way stronger. His entire body felt like it was sinking into the ground like slowly getting pulverized--but it wasn't. It was just a feeling--probably caused by the unbearable torment deteriorating his body and will.
A faint voice echoed; its origins were unknown thus causing Blake to turn around and look for something--or someone. However, there was nobody around--not a single spark of light was close by. He withdraw his gun and cocked it with his right hand. His hand was shaking due to the intense pain; he couldn't aim it forward. He would miss if he would ever fire a single shot but he raised the pistol anyway.
"Your body is under a lot of stress, young man." An old throated voice resonated from behind Blake.
As a response, Blake turned around without lowering his pistol, "Who are you?"
"I am nothing but an old man taking a stroll; feeling the icy breeze of winter." The old man carefully uttered each word like it was a poem, "You're hurt--really hurt. I can see the rage burning in your eyes. You're