Solitary confinement has been decidedly dubbed a form of torture if it is utilized frequently enough and for a long enough period of time. In a series of interviews, a number of prisoners described massive, free-floating anxiety during their incarceration in solitary, accompanied by quite a few cases of recurrent acute episodes of tachycardia, diaphoresis, shortness of breath, panic, tremulousness, and dread of impending death. One prisoner reported that he experienced shortness of breath a lot, alongside a pounding heart and a feeling of not having enough oxygen to breathe. Another reported that he often felt dizzy, and out of breath. Yet another noted that he would begin to dwell on seemingly menial thoughts, such as the fact that he’d seen roaches within the prison and that perhaps one of them would be able to find its way into his ear whilst he slept, or when he wasn’t paying close enough attention to his surroundings. He’d experience spells of extreme heat, and then shortness of breath and an abnormally raised pulse. He’d begin to shake and the suffer from excruciating migraines. These symptoms arise over relatively short periods of being forced into a solitary lifestyle, or in other words a lifestyle that humans weren’t hardwired for. One would think that the experience of a soul would be somewhat different, perhaps lingering in one place for all of eternity would be more of a state of being than a genuine set of experiences. Unfortunately for the trapped spirit of a young man named Amon, that was far from the case.<br/><br/>Amon was trapped within solitary confinement, only instead of four white walls and a shining light, he had a dark, dry, unforgiving hole in the ground with a single table set up in the center. In the first years, he experienced the confinement much as he would have were a live man in his place. Of course, he didn’t have a heart that could pound, nor lungs that could expand or contract, but he had a fully intact psyche that could suffer great fissures from the horrors that were held for him within the confines of the narrow tomb. Though, within the confines of the tomb, he wasn’t as completely and utterly alone as one might think.<br/><br/>Atop that stone table settled in the center of the room, he had the only company he’d know for thousands of years: his own corpse. He watched the flesh of his body, which had been left unpreserved as one final blow to his dignity, wither away into a disgusting, leathery texture. He’d watched the flesh pull back from his parted mouth, to expose his teeth in a morbid snarl, and his eyelids sunk in as the orbs beneath dissolved. He’d watched his form break down bit by bit until all that was left was a desiccated corpse that barely resembled his form in life if it did at all. The only truly recognizable piece of himself that remained was the stringy locks of hair that still clung to his head and stuck to his face. If he hadn’t been trapped with the corpse for the entirety of its time, sealed within the crypt as though he was still a physical entity, he’d likely have not claimed it as his own. Yet there he sat, and the fact was indisputable: the withered, abused body that laid before him was his former vessel, and now he was trapped at its side forever more.<br/><br/>But then, suddenly, there was commotion on the outside of the chamber, and through the wall, light flooded. Had the spirit been capable of processing external stimuli he’d have been blinded by the light after hundreds upon hundreds of years spent in darkness, but luckily he was spared such agony. He simply remained hovering over his body, but suddenly his long-stewed, bitter spirit wasn’t alone. Men flooded the room, ogling at the body upon the table, though the room was otherwise empty so many lost interest quite quickly. One remained. As he moved about the body Amon watched closely, monitoring his each and every move like a caged animal might. He didn’t seem malicious, but then having been held to his body for as long as he had been he’d likely lost touch with his ability to read human body language. He treated his corpse gently, at least, and the small bit of kindness touched the bitter soul. It touched him so deeply, in fact, that Amon found himself drawn to the warm bit of living flesh that was Dr. Cassian Beckett.<br/><br/>He thirsted for the sensation of being housed in a body once more, after years of knowing nothing but emptiness and bitter, freezing cold. When he touched Cassian’s body, when he attached himself to the professor, he was sure he could just barely feel what it was to be warm again … The sensation of it was intoxicating. So much so, that he couldn’t leave the young man’s side. Even now as Cassian was plucking away at a tomb aside from the one where his body was placed Amon was at his side. He should have felt something akin to euphoria at his freedom, at the liberation from those for ancient walls, and yet all he felt was the intense desire to remain close to Cassian, to be noticed by him. So he’d started plaguing him with gruesome nightmares.<br/><br/>He hadn’t died in the chamber, but he needed Cassian to recognize who it was that was showing up in the depths of his slumber. He hungered for the recognition of his corpse, and his soul, to have them drawn together as one. Dr. Beckett, however, seemed rather oblivious. So night after night the nightmares, while remaining much the same, grew more detailed, gruesome, and horrific. The manifestation of his energy within the Doctors mind was as violent as it had been yet the previous night, with the more gory parts of his initial murder on full display before the man’s eyes. Yet still, he was oblivious. That much was fine with Amon, though. He’d waited years for this, and what were a few more, in the grand scheme of the existence of his essence? He could be patient, and in the meanwhile, Cassian had eyes boring into his temple as he worked, an eager, restless, yet patient soul watching him intently as he worked, excited to learn the inner workings of his mind as he wormed his way through his psyche.