Disclaimer: I do not own Amnesia: The Dark Descent or any material related to Frictional Games in any way or form.

A/N: Title is a nod to Daniel's famous line about geometry, and my observances of the attitudes of some gamers who have tried to play this game, only to stop within the first five minutes already scared out of their minds.

For the record, I have finished the game, and I would highly recommend it to anyone who wants a great first-person survival horror game which will make them feel truly helpless. After all, you must play without a gun. In fact, you play without any weapons to aid you. I can honestly say that you are almost guaranteed to appreciate any and all forms of light after playing this game. Oh, and possibly develop an immense fear of water.

For those survivors who have played the game, this little ficlet takes place in your deepest, darkest corners of the hell that is Castle Brennenburg. Wherever you found yourself cowering in a darkened cabinet, praying a Servant wouldn't find you, remember that place.

Remember it well.

My heart beats, pounds, so loud, so fast. That, that thing is after me! I hear a half giggle, half scream, echo off the walls, spurring me to run even faster in my hysterical panic. I feel my feet pounding against The rusty squeal of a cupboard does nothing to calm my grating nerves as I slide inside, trying not to slam the doors behind me in sheer terror. My fingers are trembling, I'm trying so hard not to scream, and that thing—OH GOD, IT'S BEATING DOWN THE DOOR!

PAINT THE MAN, CUT THE LINES

Shut off the lantern, clap my hands over my mouth with cheeks puffed fiercely to stifle my shrieks when the monstrosity finally breaks through the flimsy rotted wood and growls. I hear it searching for me in the dark, and I can smell its putrid stench as it passes sluggishly by my hiding place. It nearly makes me vomit, but I know I would regurgitate nothing but bile. Everything else had been long gone since the wine cellar—

PAINT THE MAN, CUT THE LINES

I feel my hold on reality slipping away; going, going, and there's no way to stop it. Red tints my vision, and the numbed skin on my back pulls apart, oozing hot, thick liquid where it slashed at me. I tumble out of the cabinet once I know that thing has gone. Or at least, I hope it's gone. I feel weak and there's blood… blood everywhere; flesh and entrails putrefying outside against stained it's because I see this blood that I feel so utterly terrified, so frightened I have to light a candle and cower in the corner, listening for the dragging footsteps of that thing and—

CUT THE FLESH, WATCH THE BLOOD SPILL

I gasp. I weep. I'm breaking, I'm dying… No. Not yet. But I will break—I will die—if I stay here any longer. I struggle to my knees, my feet, lifting myself with the aid of the decaying shelves nearby. I find a vial of laudanum in my coat pocket and throw it back carelessly. Pick up the dimmed lantern and gaze morosely at what little oil is left. But I cannot stop for weariness or fatigue. I breathe deeply, trying to quell the rapid beating of my heart. I peer warily around the corner. I must carry on…

Let it come…