- Chapter 3 in which it grows worse Somehow you make it through another day. Day? Is it even right to call it that anymore? It’s more like a cycle… wait for the three gongs... wait for it to go pitch black... find a way to get yourself asleep. It usually involves crying or talking to yourself like a mad person. What is this room doing to you? Your mind runs around in circles. You miss your bed, you miss the taste of food, you miss the sun, the stars, and the moon at night. You miss being happy, and you miss being able to talk to something alive. All of this, and it’s only been two cycles, two nights of pitch darkness. You begin yelling. Yelling at yourself, the walls for getting closer together, the ceiling for turning out the lights, mostly at nothing though. You yell as if you're insane, accusing someone of doing this to you, of ruining your life. Of taking your memories, and making it so hard to keep things straight. And it’s only been two cycles. Your head begins to hurt and that’s when you realize you’ve been pulling your own hair, some of it comes out, but not much. And now, for some reason you start laughing. Laughing turns into crying, and crying turns into hysteria. You can barely breathe, but you can’t stop. It takes a little while, but you finally fall asleep…. only to awake to the same thing again. The room, smaller. You swear it’s smaller. There’s no possible way it could feel smaller without actually being smaller. Because it is, it is. It is smaller. You know it’s smaller. But you don’t know how... and it drives you wild. Choking down yet another pill, you check. Counting each step as carefully as before. Not 20, you tell yourself, not 15. But 10. How is it only ten steps? You check again, counting even more carefully, taking time and precision to count these precious steps. But no, 10. It’s still 10. Not 20, not 15. 10. After checking about five more times, the weirdest thing happens, and you hear a small whisper in the very very back of your head “it’s not smaller” it whispers to you in its small, quiet voice. “YES IT IS” you yell, “I KNOW IT IS” you fall to your knees, hand on each side of your head, trying to get out the voice, and slowly banging your head against the nearby wall, “don’t tell me it isn’t.. don’t tell me it isn’t… don’t tell me it isn’t…IT IS. IT IS. IT IS. IT IS. it is….” you repeat, over and over again, sobbing to yourself. “I know it is…” you say… while secretly doubting it…..
- Chapter 4 in which time passes very very slowly The next two cycles drive you slowly insane. You're bruised from banging your head on the wall so many times, and your arms, legs, and face are covered in claw marks from your own nails. You cannot deal with this any longer. It’s the same thing every time. The room is only 8 steps big now. They used to be decreasing it by five, and now they’re slowly torturing you by decreasing it by one each cycle. Who is doing this to you? And why won’t they just cut it out? Insanity is inching its way into your mind, and you can’t stop it. Pacing the room, you notice a detail you seem to have passed or skimmed over every other time you inspect the room. The door. A large, silver, metal door. It’s almost like it calls to you, like it’s waiting for you to open it, waiting for you to leave the room. You don’t know why you’ve never noticed this door and you don’t care. You run straight over to it, hands shaking wildly, and place one of your hands on the door knob, and one on the wall. You sit there for a moment, your knuckles turning white from how firmly you're gripping the doorknob. Then you take a deep breath, hoping, hoping that it opens. As you slowly turn the door knob, the anticipation grows, your hopes are high -maybe a little too high - and your skin is crawling with the need to get.out. You turn it, and pull. Nothing. Nothing. The door does NOT open. Your brain can’t seem to wrap itself around the idea that you can’t leave, and you keep pulling at the door. Begging it to just open. To please open. You are tired of living here, you are tired of the room, and how small it’s getting. Even the ceiling is closing in. Not much, but still. You are mad. You are very very very mad. You are devastatingly angry. You pound on the door, you yell, you scream. You pound, and pound, and pound, until the anger fades into sadness. You are tired, you just want to get out, you just want to sleep in a bed. You just want to feel warm, and happy again. “But noooo, instead, you're stuck. You're stuck in this stupid room with these stupid walls and you feel stupid and life is stupid and everything just sucks.” Yes, that is what you yell at the door before you finally give up. Resorting to staring at the walls in agony, with an aching heart. And no way out. (cont. https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1242517341/ )
