Nothing but darkness.
Thick darkness, curling around me like a heavy curtain, pressing on my ears, on my chest, even on my breathing.
A suffocating void swallows time and space, absorbing them, as if the entire world has vanished around me, leaving only the echo of myself in this gloom.
I hear nothing—except my heartbeat, sometimes racing, sometimes slowing, like a trapped bird gasping desperately, trying to free itself from an invisible cage.
My hands? My feet? I feel nothing.
A heavy numbness creeps upward, slowly, as if traveling through every nerve, every bone, every artery.
It reaches my neck, constricting it, until my body feels like a lifeless corpse, trapped in an inner fog that refuses to lift.
Who am I? I do not know.
Where am I? I do not know.
Only one sensation remains clear: fear.
Raw, primal, unconditional fear, consuming every thought, every other feeling.
Footsteps.
Slow… measured… cutting through the silence that fills the space.
The silence becomes echoes, bouncing across a hollow, solid floor, reflecting in the room in a way that makes it seem larger, longer, deeper than I can bear.
Then, a metallic squeal—a door opening somewhere unseen.
The footsteps approach, rising gradually, increasing the pressure on my nerves, on my silence, on everything within me.
I try to scream. I try to move.
Nothing.
My body is exhausted to the edge.
Even simple movements—raising an arm, moving a foot—become a struggle.
Then—suddenly—light.
A sharp, stabbing beam strikes my eyes, piercing the inner veil, stripping me from myself for a moment.
I curl into myself, blind, defeated, unable to resist.
Someone is here.
I cannot see them, but I feel their breath, the faintness of their steps, the touch of their absence and presence at once.
They kneel… carefully unfastening my bindings, silently, without a word.
Blood rushes back into my limbs, hot and stinging, crawling like writhing snakes under my skin, awakening every buried sensation.
They place something beside me.
A food tray?
Then, without a word, they turn and leave.
No! Don't go! Wait!
I try to plead, to fill the space with my voice, but my voice betrays me.
A fragmented, heavy, sharp silence emerges, as if devouring all the air around me.
Burning pain in my head, as if thousands of glass shards pierce my brain.
A sharp headache… then the flashes begin to form.
I am standing.
A corpse lies at my feet. Lifeless. Still.
My hands are covered in blood, warm and sticky, I cannot raise my gaze.
I stare down in silence.
My heart races—wild, terrified, leaping inside my chest without pause.
Another flash.
I am running, moving through the shadows, carrying someone in my arms.
Blood everywhere, sticky, warm, endless, as if embracing everything it touches, embedding itself in every corner.
I scream for help. I shout with a voice that slices the air, gnawing at the walls.
No one comes. No one hears.
I stumble. I fall. I rise. I keep running.
Another flash.
A cold metal table, cotton candy…
A strange, unreal moment of peace in a world gone mad.
I laugh… I smile unconsciously.
Then—a gunshot.
He falls, eyes wide with shock, lips forming my name, then… deep, murderous, heavy silence.
I open my eyes.
A headache splitting my skull, sparks of glass, mixed with constant flashing inside me.
Who am I? What is this place?
The images come in succession, unending, as if my mind has become a giant screen that will not turn off.
A white room… harsh surgical lights.
I leave the operating room, faces smiling, silent.
"You did it," someone says.
Did what?
I nod, forcing a faint, timid, meaningless smile.
I return to the darkness of the room once again.
A faint scent reaches my nose, close, undefined.
I turn my head slowly, inch by inch, as if my spine has turned to rust, creaking with every tilt.
Blurry vision… a metal tray.
Burnt bread, cold piece of meat, a cup of water sweating at the sides.
Is it safe? A trap?
I don't know.
But my stomach screams in hunger, and my throat is dry, like a desert stone stuck in the air.
I crawl. I drag my body like a threadless puppet, each movement heavy, each motion a battle.
I eat without thought, without hesitation, pure instinct.
I chew, swallow, breathe, as if every movement is a small punishment, yet I do not stop.
Like an animal waking from a century-long slumber.
I try to stand.
My legs resist, trembling, every muscle in my body screaming in pain.
I press against the wall, take a step, then another—each joint burning, each movement a challenge.
I walk, feeling the cold walls, rough texture, cracks, lines, marks… then suddenly the texture turns into a strange smoothness, an eerie chill.
The door.
I examine it with all remaining focus.
The lock—old iron, its rust flaking at the touch.
Fresh rust, weak, brittle, brown residue in the cracks, musty smell with a hint of spice.
I taste it: salt.
I continue feeling the wall… my only guide in this darkness, the dusty floor, the slanted ceiling, everything groaning under the weight of time.
Then… markings.
Vertical lines, repeated, deliberate, as if someone had been counting the days here.
I stumble over a stone. I lift it to find a wrapped piece of cloth beneath, a broken phone, wires protruding from the battery.
I pause for a moment. I understand the game.
Whoever was here before me used salt and the battery to accelerate metal decay. A slow, yet effective method.
And suddenly—
Gunshots.
One, two, three.
I freeze in place, my breath stopping, everything around me holding still.
A silence heavier than sound itself, then wings of terrified birds fly away, I feel them soaring above my head, then I slide to the ground, holding my breath.
Nothing else.
Silence wraps me again. I awaken to a different light, soft, warm, morning light.
Golden shards sneak through a crack above the door.
I move toward the lock, see the rust spreading, brittle, I use the remaining broth to saturate it, connect the battery wires, and wait.
The void was deadly.
I watch the lock until darkness falls, then footsteps approach.
I wait for him to open the door, but he merely places the tray and slides it under the door.
Days pass, weeks, the same monotonous cycle: food… broth… waiting… three gunshots.
Always three, spaced apart.
This happened every week, at the end of each week.
Until the twentieth day.
I touch the lock, it moves, still solid, but begins to corrode slowly, silently, in a way almost tangible, perceptible in my fingers, in my sense, in my silence.