Black, White And Red.

Black. White. Red.
Colours of a joke he recalled, but now there was no laughter, only his own screams as he ran, ran forever through the Hell he'd fallen into. No way out, no way back.
The night was black. It followed him at every turn, refusing to leave his side and snuffing out every light he held. It smothered everything that he could have seen with his dying eyes, it surrounded everything that he could have used to save himself.
His skin was white.
All its colour was lost to the illness and the pain. It shone dimly like the moon at night, clammy and sweaty. Every time he looked at his hands he was reminded of a delicate china plate he'd seen once, so thin it could break at the slightest touch. His bones sometimes showed through the white skin, reminding him again and again of the hunger.
His blood was red. It spills from his side and stains the pale white skin he wears over his strained skeleton, warm and wet. The red stain spreads quickly over his torn clothes, weighing them down and dripping through to his feet. It rolls down his legs into the eternal blackness, the infinite night that he was running from before he realised that he was lost. The blood reminds him that he's long dead, and makes him question whether he was even alive at all. The dark red reminds him that he's weak, reminds him of the pain he'd hoped to forget.
Black. White. Red.
The darkness, the illness and the weakness.