The world is quiet here. Sitting all alone, the sounds of my own breath my sole company. I try to speak up but the words are gone as quickly as they form. The darkness swallows anything more than the slightest sound even though the light is brighter than its ever been. I haven't an inkling of how I ended up in this eternal hellhole, my own personal Tartarus. As long as I can remember, I sat in the white chair in the stark white room with the harsh white light in my crisp white clothes. Occasionally I would miraculously fall asleep despite my surroundings. I would always awake to a small plate of food and a freshly clean room. A new set of perfectly pressed white clothes. I spent most of my life tired and hungry. My vision blurry. No concept of time. My only method of survival a small pond in the corner of my prison, combined with distant remembrances of far off voices and faces, people and places. A reason to live. A reason to search for escape. Day and night I tried to escape. I wondered around the room working towards my freedom. One day as I was wondering, my fingers simply grazed a small bump on the wall, indistinguishable visually. A clicking sound. An opened door. Freedom. Escape. I found my way out of hell.
