Wooden Chamber

He wakes up. With his eyes closed, he tries to reflect upon yesterday. Nothing… Yesterday was nothing but a vague memory he is unable to recall. He opens his eyes and finds himself in a small, square chamber with about three meters of width. It has no windows, no door, nothing but peeling wallpaper. He sits up, looks around and wonders; where am I?

The room is lit by an invisible source of light; nothing casts a shadow. The floor, walls and ceiling, all are wooden and marked by filth; the floor dirty with cockroaches gathered around in one corner while other corners are occupied by cobwebs awaiting victims of helpless creatures to turn up. He looks beside him and sees a knife with a half-eaten apple; worms finishing the rest of it. He gives them no significance as he stands up, paces the room trying to find a hidden door or window. He finds none. No trap door, no crack between the tiles of wood.

How did I get in here? He thinks but does not linger over thoughts. His only purpose becomes that of getting out of the room. The fading wallpaper is colored of beige with little red flowers. It must have been years since the room has been deserted, it is creepy.

He then thinks to himself, maybe there is a door behind the wallpapers. A glimpse of hope surges inside of him. He starts to peel the walls; almost certain he will find a door. But the walls reveal nothing but wood, and more wood. His heart feels gloomy before the last wall is stripped naked. It then feels desperate. Nothing but wood tiles.

He clears the cobwebs in one of the corners and sits there, hugs his knees and falls into deep reflection trying to figure a way out. Think! He sees the knife; he gets up, picks it up and goes back to his former position with the knife in his grasp. He could use it somehow, he thinks to himself. How?

He rises again, tries to put the knife through the cracks between the wooden tiles of one of the walls, but they are too close to each other. He tries to carve the wood, but it is too hard. He gives up for a while, tries again, fails again then gives up again. He sits back into the corner, knife held tight in his grasp. He waits for a while, gets up again, and tries to carve the wood once more, but then again, the blade leaves nearly scratches on the hardened wood. He goes back to his corner.

He knows the knife is the answer, but how could it be of any help? It is his only companion in the room. The ghost of loneliness begins swarming over him. He gets up, walks around, paces the small room back and forth forcing himself to think, but finds himself unable to. What to do? How to do? He begins to lose grip. Anger creeps through his blood. He tightens his grip onto the knife's handle, stands in front of the knife-scratched wall, his teeth clenched and grip tightened, he starts banging his head on the wall as he screams and screams, every limb of his body gone stiff; he is losing his mind. He keeps banging his head on and on, but the pain is not as much as he intends it to be. He loses all feeling, his head goes numb. There must be another way.

He turns round, looks at the wall opposite him, gathers momentum and runs towards it at full speed to thrust it with his shoulder. He falls onto the floor screaming his agony. Good pain, he thinks to himself. He bellows, not of pain but of things he could not explain. The entrapment is taking away every sense he has. He keeps screaming until his voice goes hoarse. He feels his soul come out with every sound he makes, but soul resides, for he still feels a twitch of pain. Still alive, he thinks to himself. He looks at the knife still clenched in his hand, the blade bent from his endeavors to carve the walls. His knuckles have turned all white.

Seconds tick away, minutes, hours and maybe years for all he knows. He lies there on the floor. Exhausted and panting, he feels his fist release the knife as he falls into deep sleep.


He wakes up. A gloomy slumber is overcome. His head, shoulders and knuckles hurt. It has not been a dream after all. His insides are worse than the outside. He is being driven to madness as loneliness creeps into his veins, the more time passes, the more it eats out of his core. Long lost memories flood back. He cannot figure out what keeps him in that goddamn room. He has been alone for quite a time; he knows there is a way out, only he is unable to reach the door.

He sits up in the middle of the room hugging his knees and rocking back and forth like a little child. His soul seems to be watching him from a distance as he suffers madness he is unable to overcome. Thoughts haunt him as he smells the filth of his echoing nightmares. He can hear his heart beat in his head as seconds tick away. He tries to kill his thoughts and cerebration, but as he endeavors to do so, more come flooding.

Bleeding from inside, screaming and lost, he looks at the knife. The blade shines and sends her seductions to his screeching marrow, beckoning death whose ghost has begun to swarm.

He tries not to think, but again, he fails. Death and darkness are there, he cannot deny the existence of a sinister soul overpowering him. With every breath, he feels his spirit trying to flee. Living seems pointless… But no! He must fight! He must be strong, he must break free from his pondering, he must resist his own thoughts, but again, sleep takes over.

Through the gloominess of his sleep, he feels he has not enough strength to wake up. The blade goes into his flesh. One last pain, one last good pain and it is over. He hugs himself, opens his eyes, and then sees it, the ghost of death that has been waiting. It is a hooded figure, all dark and tall and pinned to the wall. Under the hood he sees the sinister smile and the flickering eyes as the ghost begins to fade out of sight. He is left with 3 more seconds to live after the ghost disappears, in which seconds he sees what the ghost has been hiding behind it on the wall: an enormous black wooden door…