The walls feel closer today. Their gray, bare expanse seems to swallow any light that trickles in from the crack. That sliver of light is my only tether to the outside world, but it’s so faint, so fragile. I spent hours yesterday staring at it, hoping it would widen, but it didn’t.
I’ve been trying to write, trying to fill these pages with something, anything, to keep my mind from spiraling. The pencil feels awkward in my hand, but it’s all I have. My thoughts come in disjointed bursts, fragmented and scattered. I wrote down everything I could remember about yesterday, but the memories already feel blurry, like they happened to someone else.
The door remains an unyielding slab of metal, a reminder of my captivity. I pounded on it today, just once, a brief, desperate attempt to make some noise, to break the suffocating silence. No response, not that I expected one.
The bed, with its cold metal frame and thin mattress, offers no comfort. I tried to sleep, but the mattress is so hard it might as well be the floor. My body aches, and the air feels thick, as if it’s pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe.
I hear the hum again. It’s constant, low, just on the edge of perception. Maybe it’s real, or maybe my mind is conjuring it up to fill the void. The silence is so complete that even my own breathing seems too loud.
The light from the crack shifts as the hours pass, but it’s the same monotonous cycle. Time drags, stretching out endlessly. I don’t know how long I can keep this up, this waiting, this endless watching.
For now, I write. It’s all I can do. The pencil scratches across the page, a small defiance against the silence.
YOU ARE READING
Inside the Room
Misterio / SuspensoA journal. A man who was confined in a room for [REDACTED] days, based on its contents The room was clean. Too clean.
