Author's Note: This is a figurative story inspired by Ayumi Elric's "Shadows Within: Prison." The main body of the story is meant to be abstract and figurative, and the little bit at the end is what's 'really' happening in the 'real' world. I hope you can understand and enjoy this piece, because I rather like it. The beautiful, gorgeous, utterly perfect cover art can be found here: levi-khane dot deviantart dot com / art / FMA-quot-SOS-quot-188329109

"When I reach ... I reach for you."

- 'You Run' by Submersed

Alphonse Elric's sobs echoed around the empty room, hitting the walls and bouncing back to mock him. He tried to shut out the sound, but it only intensified the harder he tried, for the more desperate he became, the more he cried and the more the sounds bounced all around him. He tried to staunch the flow of his tears, to wrap a figurative tourniquet around his throat and keep them in check, but they defiantly refused to be stopped. Nothing he did could stop them, and the more he realized this, the harder he cried. It was an endless spiral, and it frightened him more than he would have liked to admit.

Alphonse was shivering, though he hugged his knees close to his chest and curled himself into as small a ball as possible. But nothing could keep out the eternal cold of this room. He could feel the chill rising through the floor he sat on, could see his breath misting in the air at every palpitating sob. Where his clothes had gone, he did not know, but he did know that he was naked, and that did nothing to help keep away the terrible chill. Little bumps had risen all over his flesh, and they would not smooth out, no matter how much he rubbed them.

Raising his head for the tenth, hundredth, or maybe even the thousandth time, Alphonse saw that the room had not changed a bit since the last time he had checked. There were still those immensely tall, slightly curving walls, made of some cold, smooth material that seemed to catch the chill in the air and contain it, like a reverse greenhouse. The walls had no seams; Alphonse had already discovered that. It wouldn't matter if he scraped at them for the rest of his life; he could never dig his way out. The floor was made out of the same, seamless material; he could not escape it, no matter what he did.

For the fifth time (or maybe it was the eighth, or the seventy-sixth, or the nine hundredth), Alphonse pushed himself to his feet and threw himself at the wall. He beat it with his fists, sobbing uncontrollably, begging in a throbbing voice to be let out. There was no one to hear, no one who could hear, but still he called out, still he pounded the wall till his knuckles were bloody. He barely even noticed the pain anymore, for he had already repeated this more times than he could remember.

Finally, he had to stop. He pressed both palms flat against the smooth, cold wall and rested his forehead against the expanse between them. "Please..." he whispered feebly. "Someone...help..."

The very walls seemed to laugh at him, the echoes of his words dancing around him and sticking out their little tongues, giggling with glee at how helpless he was. He shuddered as he heard them, the ghosts of his own words, so pitiful, so alone. The shadows of his prison sliced right through him, attacking that soft spot as soon as he thought of it. Alone. Pitiful. Weak. Helpless. Alone, alone, alone!

"Shut up!" Alphonse screamed, whirling around and startling the shadows enough for them to retreat momentarily into the corners of the room. "Just leave me alone! Haven't you done enough to me already?"

The shadows got over their surprise, and they crept back towards him. He could see them out of the corners of his eyes, inching towards him, whispering again the very words he had said, echoed a thousand times by the cold walls. Alone. Alone. Leave me alone. Haven't you done enough? Enough? Enough, enough, enough!

"Stop!" Alphonse howled, flailing about through the shadows, punching and kicking and whirling and spinning, over and under and all around the room, just as he had learned from his Master. But no matter how hard he fought, he could never grasp the shadows, never feel his fists collide against them, and ever they mocked him, mimicking his movements and splattering them grotesquely on the walls, haunting him and goading him onward.

He was sobbing again. But then, he was always sobbing, it seemed. One might think there would be a limit to how many tears one can cry. But if one thought that, one would be wrong. Alphonse never found the limit, so he always cried.

At last Alphonse had to admit defeat. Again. He dropped to his knees in the middle of the room, and as the shadows beat his bare back, he fell forward onto his hands as well. Hunched over, he stared at the floor spattered with his own tears and let the shadows carry on with their torment. He was like Rapunzel, he reflected. The difference was that Rapunzel was trapped on the top of an unassailable tower, and he was stuck in the lowest dungeon. Other than that, though, they were the same. They both were captives, held against their will in a prison that could not be breached.

As the shadows sapped him of all his strength, Alphonse slumped down onto the cold ground, where he lay prostrate for the twentieth or the seven thousandth time. His strength would return, he knew, as it always did, and then the battle would begin again. But for now, he could not muster up the energy to even curl up in a ball in the attempt to hold in a little of his body's heat. He wondered: If he was Rapunzel, would there be a Prince Charming to come rescue him?

Well, the part about the hair wouldn't work. A tired smile curved Alphonse's lips. His golden hair hung ragged down his back, almost to his waist. But even if he did have yards and yards of hair, it would never work for the reverse of Rapunzel. Unfortunately, if a Prince Charming came along and said, Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair, he would have to reply, I can't.

"Brother..." Alphonse whispered, his voice hoarse from all the screaming. He wanted his big brother to be the Prince Charming, because his brother was smart enough to think up a way to get past the problem with the hair. His brother could come up with a solution to anything. But...maybe this was too hard even for his brother? Maybe this was impossible?

"No," Alphonse whispered in reply to his own questions, for he knew he was the only one who would answer them. "You can do it, Brother. You can find me. You can rescue me. I know you can." He trusted his brother with all his heart. Somehow, his brother would realize where he was, and rescue him. Somehow.

The shadows snickered at him, and Alphonse lay in a pool of his own tears. Tears shed out of fear and the hopelessness of his position. Tears of longing, longing for his brother. Tears that continued to trickle out of his eyes, building up and pouring out, filling up the room. Alphonse knew, as he lay there in the ever-growing puddle, that one day those tears would be over his head. Maybe it would be the ten-thousandth time he collapsed in defeat, or maybe it would be the millionth. All he could hope was that his brother would find him before he drowned.

"Al?"

"...Huh?"

"Are...Are you okay?"

"Oh... Yeah. I'm fine, Brother."