Four Grey Walls [BxB]

Chapter 1

My consciousness slowly returns to me. The first thing I feel is something hard against my right side. I must be on the ground. Then, a sudden pain jabs me on the left side of my head—like a humongous boulder had just landed on it. I raise my hand to hold where the pain is coming from.

I flutter my eyes open and my vision is blurred. Slowly it fixes itself. Instead of blurriness, I start to see three of everything. Then two. Then one.

When my vision finally returns I realize I'm facing a blank wall that is covered in grey—almost like the surface of nothing. I lift my head up to get a better look of where I am and discover other walls that mirror the first.

All the walls are plain grey and look to be made of cement. Some small cracks are peeking through. One corner of the room has a metal toilet with a mini-wall for cover-up. Another corner has a shower head with tiled white squares on the wall and floor making a mini-shower. On one wall there's a red calendar. One 'X' covers up the small box for March the 1st. That must indicate that it's the 2nd. The half of the calendar that's hanging on a nail shows a cloud with a pink push hovering over a bridge—it looks absolutely beautiful.

The only thing that's differs one wall from from the rest is a steel-looking door with two bars that give a view of the other side.

I can't remember a single thing at all: my name, family, friends, nor what happened before I ended up in here. What the hell happened?

I use my right arm to lift myself up off the stony ground. Then I proceed by picking up my whole body. Even with the rocky floor, my body doesn't hurt at all, well except my head.

I turn around and walk over to the door. I wrap my finger around the two iron bars as my face sticks in between the middle opening.

Right across from the door is a yellow-colored wall. To the right of that wall is a closed brown wooden door and to the left is what looks like to be a living room. In the center is a short, oval-shaped glass table with two brown couches surrounding it—one of them longer than the other. There is also a small box-shaped window, with white lines separating them making a plus sign, behind the elongated couch.

I hear a door open in the distance, then close. Footsteps that seem to be coming toward me and they make an echo through the walls.

An old man with brown paper bags in his arms pops into my eyesight. He's wearing a light-blue shirt with two white stripes horizontally stitched across along with white shorts. He looks like he just came from the beach.

The beach. I remember being there, but with who? I don't know.

Very blurry and faint memories about hot sand and noisy waves start crawling into my head.

"Hey! Who are you? Why am I in here?" I yell.

He says nothing and instead pulls out what looks to be a brown book and a yellow pencil, and he starts walking my way, gazing at my face the whole time with a grin.

He stops right in front of me, the door being only barrier between us. He lifts his hands up and places each arm through the other two spaces beside my head. "Write your days." He has a very scratchy voice.

I give him a confused look and take a step back from the iron door. "You didn't answer my questions: who are you and why am I in here?"

His grin disappears and is replaced by a frown—he looks serious now. "You can call me Mr. C. That's all you need to know." He pushes his arms further through the spaces toward me. "Now, write."

Frightened, I reach for the book and pencil and yank them from his hands. I look down at my hands, holding the book and pencil. What in the world does he want me to write? A bedtime story?

When I return to face him again I discover that creepy grin has returned. Then he walks away, with it stuck on his face.

I don't who he is, who I am and much less where I am.

Write my days? As in...a diary? What?! No. I can't be stuck in here for so long to the point where I 'write my days'. Someone will find me, right? Right?

Tears find their way to escape and they start pouring down my cheeks. I drop to the ground, still holding the book and pencil, and start sobbing.

No, please. I can't be kidnapped. Not me. Please, oh please not me.

Wet drops are now covering most of my face. I must look like I just dipped my face in water.

I look down at what I'm holding. "Write my days?" I whisper. I place the pencil on the ground and use my pointer finger to open up the book. A blank page appears. "A diary?"

I pick the pencil back up and tighten my grip around it as it meets the page.

March the 2nd
Dear Diary...