blue- If i were green i would die

Feeling left out of the melancholy, so here's my shot at it.

His cell was black. All black. The walls were covered in a texture that he had never experienced before, and that he could never describe afterward. The ceiling was low- too low. It forced him to hunch over as he paced back and forth. Three steps each way. Small steps. The coldness of the air made him shiver to keep warm, and I wish I could tell you that it worked.
The floor was covered in an inch of water form wall to wall, and the air was filled with the resulting dingy dampness and a stench that made him pray to lose his senses.
Month after month he allowed his fingernails to grow out, and the grime to collect beneath them. Finally they were long enough and he dug them into his chest. He jabbed them in, further and further, forcing them through his bones, each one cracking under the pressure. And then he pulled, as hard as he possibly could, wrenching his chest open. He knew that inside, there was something alive, something that was not so… black. He thrust his hand around his heart and pulled it out, covered in blood. As he wiped it on the wall, he realized that it disappeared. It was enveloped by the black. It faded into every other color that had been wiped on those walls by those who had suffered in his cell before him. The texture of the walls was the attempt of he predecessors to do the same thing he had wanted to do- see life. See hope. They all failed.
His cell door is open, but he will not walk out. He knows this hell can end whenever he wants, but he would have to let someone else help. So he stays. He tries to find life on his own. He tries to bring life to his cell, but he fails. Over and over he fails.