five minutes last an hour

reoccurrence; part 1

A single sofa encased in the smoothest velvet of a bright red color in the center of a heavily decorated classic library contrasts the dull dark hues of its thick wooden shelves, ceiling, and walls.

I'm sitting on it.

Directly in front of me is a simple yet elegant jade vase, cool and smooth, perched upon a square marble post about the same size, just a tad taller. And behind it are two silk curtains with intricate designs, draped back as if to display what was beyond the frosted window plastered onto a wall, all white. 

At my nape I feel short puffs of moist air, 

breaths.

I dare not turn around, frozen in place.

"Welcome," whispers the voice of a big man, a man I recognize—the owner of this house. He chuckles under his breath and moves backwards, away from me. Before disappearing, his voice booms and echoes off the walls,

"And enjoy the show!"

The illuminated chandeliers on either side of the ceiling begin to shake, the diamonds dangling from their bottom and clanking against each other, almost as if from an earthquake. 

I clutch onto the thick cushion of the sofa as it is reeled back into the furthest wall, and now without the vase obscuring my view of it, I notice that the window has become a movie screen.

The room becomes pitch black.

And then a projector above my head turns on, whirring. The pictures it displays are fuzzy, as are the particles that float in and out of the light stream shining from the machine on the ceiling I hadn't noticed before.

Silence.

I scream.

...