Creative Writing: A Horseman's Death

The first spear sprouted out of his back, the second went down through his leg, and the final one lifted his body off the ground, pushing it's way through his ribs, piercing through his heart and cracking through his spine, each of these spears now spattered in his luke-warm scarlet lifeblood.

That's when he died.

For a few seconds.

"Oh you fucker, just stop this shit already. What the fuck is your fucking problem you limpdicked piece of-"

His lips sealed shut. Physically, he couldn't part them, everytime he tried to shout and scream, immense pain shook through his body, as if his lips had been welded together. The previous blood-soaked dirt beneath him became whiteness, not a floor, but a never-ending clean white that carried on infinitely, the horsemen, long spears

No, the table had always been there, he remembered seeing it... Yes... The table had most certainly always been there...

Then a small, simple-looking wooden chair formed from nothingness besides it. No. It was already there when he got there of course.

A skinny, wrinkled looking man with leathery skin and a shaved head appeared in that very same chair. No. He was there at the start. He looked like a perfect mirrow of the nameless man, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face; and rather than being naked, this man was dressed in a toga as white as the unending emptiness around them.

Dim blue eyes looked at the nameless, rotten teeth showing as his lips parted to speak "You must understand mister immortal, this is your punishment, you realise I don't take any pleasure in your continued suffering for these past.... is it two hundred years now?"

The immortal was ready to strike the wrinkled fuckhead down, but the moment that thought so much as crossed his mind, the moment that his brain sent signals to his nerves for him to stomp forward and punch the bastard, the whiteness was gone, the table, the chair, and the wrinkly bastard were