Static - Televoid -

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Stuck. Stuck like always. Stuck in this small, suffocating room. The same walls, the same floor, the same chair, the same plant. The same printer. The same, small television. 

Ian's eyes darted about, leg bouncing to give himself something to do. Another day without television signal. Another day without seeing people. 

He looked beside himself, at the plant (was it a real plant or was it simply a faux plastic one, in order to give him something else to look at other than the floor, or that stupid TV screen, or his feet?), at the dark walls around him. At his hands. At the extremely comfortable purple hoodie he was wearing. (He was glad that the plant and his hoodie at least brought some colour to the room, he felt as though he'd go mad if he was confined in a monochrome room watching old-timey shows, most of which were monochrome as well.) 

"Is... anyone ever going to let me out?" He wondered out loud-- only to be met with silence. Of course. He was always met with silence. Nobody ever replied. Nobody ever talked to him. (Unless you count the e-mails, then of course people talked to him! But whoever was trapping him in his room never let him read any unless the camera was rolling.)

How much waiting was he going to have to endure? How much more shows and TV spots was he going to have to watch? 

He felt the eyes watching him. But he had no idea where they were. Were they in the walls? In the television screen? In the plant? Ian shook his head. There he went again, exhibiting paranoia. But he swore he was being watched.

He swore he was being watched, watched by an anonymous, malevolent entity-- someone, or something-- in this tiny, dark room. In the static. The static dullness of the room, the static white noise of the television.

All he ever knew was static. And it was probably all he would ever get to know.

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