Drop* drop* drop*
"is that water? the bruised man whispered to himself ...
Grasping for air he rushed towards the source trying to get even a little to help sustain his dying self looking at the puddle made by the water he could see his ashen skin had a lifeless palor as if all color had been drained from him he looked to be in his 30's with eyes bruised ringed with darkness as if sleep had forgotten him
As he tried to mutter something his voice sounded more like a screech from a crow rather than something uttered by a human
The word he had muttered was "where..."
The man had lost his mind or so he was thinking as he blinked against the harsh light eluded by the night's sky or was there another another reason this seemingly enclosed room could elude light , he couldn't tell his head continued throbbing he tried speaking again "where am I" the question bounce back in his skull like a pinball " why can't I remember? Who put me here? Is this real?
As the cords of his head kept turning every sound felt heightened the insistent drops of water-- *one drop two drops* heightened these sounds began gnawing at his mind
"I can't take it anymore" he mumbled trying to stand, to move, to run but his body could not it was like there was an insurmountable force forcing him to the ground. Panic surged, then sputtered, leaving him trembling , gritting his teeth and clamping on them he forced his body to crawl trying to get to the nearest wall, He dragged himself forward, each movement a battle against his own trembling body.
The floor was cold beneath his hands, hard and unyielding, but he couldn't stop; something or someone waited beyond the shadows. The room around him was a maze of darkness, corners swallowed in black, walls disappearing into nothing. Faint shapes loomed in the gloom, their edges hazy, almost alive, teasing the edge of his vision. The air was thick, heavy with a smell he couldn't place, making his stomach turn.
Every creak and drip echoed like a threat, and he swallowed a dry, rasping breath, unsure if it came from him or the room itself. Panic prickled under his skin, but he had to keep moving towards the wall, towards something solid, anything that could anchor him in this suffocating void.His hands scraped against the cold, uneven floor, every inch forward a battle against the weakness that weighed his limbs down. Shadows pressed in from every corner, the room an endless black sea where walls seemed to shift and breathe.
At last, his fingers found solid stone rough, unyielding, real.
He pressed himself against it, heart hammering, and for the first time, the darkness loosened its grip. Memories surfaced in sharp fragments: the faint smell of old wood, the way the walls had felt . the strange chill that had made him hesitate. He remembered. The confusion had almost broken him, the man had felt deja vu from the moment he had touched against the cold walls of what he had suddenly remembered was a dungeon room He pressed his back against the wall, letting the solid stone anchor him, a brief pulse of relief washing over his sickly body. I remember now… The memory of stepping into this room, the dim light, the silence, it all clicked into place. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to breathe.
And then he heard it. A faint scrape, the whisper of movement somewhere beyond the darkness. At first, he thought it was his imagination but the sounds grew sharper, deliberate. Voices, low and indistinct, weaving together in the shadows, approaching. His stomach clenched. Panic flared, yet the wall beneath his hands reminded him he was still grounded, still alive. Relief and terror tangled inside him like fire and ice.He curled against the wall, ears straining, chest heaving. Each step the voices took was a hammer on his ribs. Stay quiet… don't move… But part of him wanted to flee, to tear through the dark, even as another part clung desperately to the relief of knowing where he was. Fear gnawed at the edges of clarity, yet a perverse sort of comfort lingered: he remembered. He knew the room now knew where he was and that tiny truth was enough to keep him alert, alive, even as the voices drew nearer.
The whispers faded, replaced by a sharper, metallic sound the unmistakable crackling of keys, scraping against a lock. His heart slammed in his chest, each beat a drum of warning. The wall under his back felt cold and grounding, yet his muscles twitched, ready to bolt, hide, or fight. Should I run? Or stay? He swallowed, dry and bitter, his mind spinning.
The relief of remembering where he was clashed violently with the terror crawling up his spine. One wrong move, and it could all end here. Another heartbeat, another metallic scrape, and the door shifted slightly, groaning as if testing its own hinges.
He pressed himself tighter against the wall, every sense flaring. The air smelled sharper now, like iron and dust, filling his nose with warning. Thoughts raced - hide in the shadows? confront them? make a break for it? But indecision had no mercy.
The key turned slow and deliberate. Click. The door rattled. He froze, caught between hope and fear. Relief that he had survived this long, terror that whatever or whoever was coming had finally arrived. And then…
The door creaked open.
A shape stepped inside.