The prison was dark and damp, the air stale and heavy. The cell was small and cramped, the bed a hard, unforgiving surface. Even worse were the tentacles that reached out from the darkness to claim him.

He lay on the bed, staring up at the dim light burning in the distant corner of the cell. The tentacles were mere slivers of slimy flesh, each no thicker than his wrist. They were attached to the wall at various heights, wrapped around bars, or groping in a desultory fashion.

The tentacles were disgusting, and the entire prison was a disgusting place. He felt that he would never get used to them, never get used to the stench of his cell, never get used to the darkness that was his life.

On occasion he would hear the guards walk by, but they never spoke to him, nor did they seem to care whether he lived or died. They simply continued on their way, paying him no heed.

Then he heard the tentacle slithers. They were moving toward his cell.

He sat rigid on the bed, staring into the darkness, willing himself to remain calm. The tentacles were coming for him. Coming to wrap him in their glistening coils.

His stomach lurched. The prisoner did not know exactly what the tentacles did with their prey, but he knew it couldn't be pleasant.

He could feel it. The tentacles were upon him. He could feel the slimy, glutinous flesh brushing against his bare skin. He tried not to breathe. He tried not to move. He just hoped it would be over quickly.