It was all over him. On his scalp, in his clothes, under his nails.
Sand.
Thin and powdery sand covered him.
It Clung to his lungs like a forlorn lover, urging him to become part of it. He coughed, but It wasn't enough, it was never enough. With each exhale, each cough, more space was made for the sand to fill him.
The powder-coated his throat, his nostrils, his face. And he couldn't escape it.
What on earth did he do to deserve this?
Every five minutes the wind would come back and the sand would fly up again. He didn't how the wind got into the small box-like prison entrapping him, but he knew its direction. It would always kick up the sand from the bottom corner of the room, making the ground unsteady.
The sand would become like water then, bubbling and pulling him under. He would stumble, fall, and desperately try to escape. But each cling proved fruitless as the sand kept moving.
It then stopped, and he hacked up more sand. Pulling his leg out from the sand-covered floor, he coughed until his throat felt raw and blood was expunged from his lungs.
There was no end to the cycle, no possible way to get out.
He only had one though then.
What of his little Elli?
YOU ARE READING
Sand Rooms
Mystery / ThrillerIn the realm of nightmares, there are sand rooms. These rooms house the unlucky souls that somehow have found themselves there. I welcome you to read some of their thoughts during their stay. [one-shots]
