mandag den 23. februar 2015


Every time I wake up, I'm in a different room. None of the rooms are identical, but they all share some similarities. There's always a door, and it's always locked. There's always a window, also locked. The window cannot be broken. Sometimes I wake up on a bed, sometimes on the floor.

Today, the room is small. Twelve feet across, ceiling low enough that I can touch it with my fingertips. The walls must have been white once, but the peeling plaster have turned a sickly yellow with age. The door looks just as old. Dark wood, slightly warped, with a rusty metal handle. I get up from the damp, moldy bed and try the door's handle. It doesn't budge, but I don't expect it to.

I peer out the small window and see an exact replica of my own room, as if I were looking in from the outside. This has happened before, and I move away quickly before The Other appears.

I pace back and forth as I usually do, deep in my own thoughts. The only way to make time pass is to keep myself occupied. Five strides, turn, five strides, turn. I do this for hours until I spot something out of the corner of my eye. My guts freeze, but I keep pacing. I try to ignore the face pressed up against the window. I try to ignore the eyes that follow my every move.

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