Nothing. Only darkness. A suffocating void that swallows everything. I hear nothing but the pounding of my heart, racing as if trying to escape my chest.
My hands? My legs? I can't feel them. A heavy numbness creeps from my limbs to my neck. I can't even turn my head. My body feels like a corpse—tied down, lifeless.
Who am I? How did I get here? No idea. Only one clear feeling remains: fear.
Footsteps. Slow. Steady. Echoing on hard ground. A metallic creak. A door opening. The footsteps grow louder... closer...
I try to scream. I try to move. Nothing.
Then—a sudden light. A harsh beam blinds me. White pain floods my eyes.
Someone is here. I feel him. He begins untying me. Blood rushes back into my limbs like a snake uncoiling. He sets something beside me—a tray? Water? Food?
Then he turns and walks away.
No! Don't leave me! Wait! Please... please...
Flashes.
I'm standing. A lifeless body lies at my feet. Blood covers my hands. I stare at the corpse in silence. My heart races. I close my eyes.
Another flash.
I'm running. Carrying a body in my arms. Blood... so much blood. I scream. I beg for help. No one hears me.
I run... stumble... fall... Then get up again. And run.
Another flash.
We're sitting at a cold metal table. Eating cotton candy. A rare moment of peace. I laugh. I smile.
Then—a gunshot.
He collapses before me. Eyes wide. Mouth forming my name... Then silence.
I open my eyes again. A piercing headache. Like needles stabbing into my skull.
Who am I? What is this?
The pictures keep coming.
A white room. Bright lights. I walk out of the operating room. Faces look at me. They smile.
"You did it," someone says.
Did what? Was I the surgeon?
I nod. I smile faintly. But my chest feels heavy.
Smell.
Faint... but real.
Close. On the floor. Right beside me.
I turn my head, slowly—so slowly, as if my muscles are rusted.
A sharp pain shoots from my neck down my back.
But finally, I see it.
A metal tray… with something on it.
Food.
A small loaf, edges darkened as if slightly burnt.
A cold piece of meat—no steam, no clear scent.
A half-full glass of water… droplets forming on the surface.
Is it a trap? I don't know.
But my stomach twists like a starving beast.
My throat is dry—desert dry.
I crawl toward it, dragging my body like it barely belongs to me.
My hand trembles.
I eat.
I bite—savagely, without thinking.
Like a creature waking after a thousand years of sleep.
No taste… no pleasure… only urgent need.
Swallow. Breathe. Swallow again.
Each motion hurts. But I don't stop.
As if my body is reminding me—"You're still alive… barely."
I finish.
I drop the crumbs.
I sit down, barely able to support myself, my back resting on the cold stone wall.
I breathe—slow, heavy.
I can feel my limbs returning to me… slowly… with a little less hunger.
I look around.
The light is dull, grayish, like it belongs to a world that forgot the sun.
Stone walls—mute and lifeless.
A ceiling that presses down, even as I sit.
No windows. No openings.
Just one door… sealed shut.
I try to stand.
My legs betray me at first.
I stagger, like I've surfaced from a deep, black sea.
I reach for the wall, take a step… then another.
Every joint burns with pain.
But I walk.
I touch the wall.
Cold. Rough. Cracked in places.
I circle the room. Slowly.
There is nothing. No table. No bed. No comfort.
But then I notice…
Scratches. On the wall.
Scattered marks.
I stop.
I draw closer.
Carved faintly, but clearly.
One word.
"Run."
Etched with desperation, like a final scream.
I move toward the door.
I stand before it, examining it closely with tired eyes.
I lean in.
The lock sits in the center. Dark iron.
A faint line of rust edges its side.
It's subtle… but I see it.
I run my finger along it—it crumbles easily.
Not old rust… fresh… fragile.
Between the gaps, something unusual.
A brown, sticky substance.
I dip my finger into it, bring it to my nose.
The scent—strange… rot mixed with old spices.
I lick a bit from my fingertip.
Extremely salty.
Then it clicks.
The person who was here before me… they weren't insane.
They used the salt in the food.
Applied it to the lock. Again and again.
Corroding the metal… little by little.
A slow method… but it worked.
I leave the door behind.
I walk back toward the center of the room.
The floor is rough, dry, coated with a thin layer of dust.
Every step leaves a clear mark—as if no one has walked here in ages.
I run my hand along the wall again.
Some spots… are too smooth.
Smoothed over time—someone must've sat here. For days… maybe longer.
The light comes from high up.
A single, old lamp barely flickering in the upper corner.
It casts everything in a washed-out, lifeless gray.
The ceiling hangs low.
Slightly slanted to one side.
If I stand fully upright… my head brushes against the stone.
I continue wandering.
Pacing, searching… without knowing why.
Then on one wall…
More marks.
Vertical scratches. Repeated. Close together.
I approach.
I count them.
No mistake.
Someone was tracking days… or nights.
I stand still before the wall.
I run my fingers across the lines.
Indented… quiet, but screaming with memory.
Suddenly… a sound.
A gunshot. Sharp. Dry.
Then another.
And a third.
I freeze.
The silence that follows is heavier than the sound itself.
Then… fluttering.
Birds.
Many of them.
Startled—taking off all at once.
I press my back to the wall.
Listening.
Nothing.
Stillness returns—deeper, thicker than before.
I stay there for a long while.
My back against the wall. My ears tense.
But nothing happens.
The silence devours everything again.
My body begins to give out.
My legs can't hold me anymore.
My eyes… heavy.
I sit in the corner.
I wrap my arms around my knees.
Rest my head against the cold stone.
I close my eyes...
And let everything disappear.
I don't know how long I slept.
But I wake to a different kind of light.
Soft… warm.
Morning light, slipping through a narrow crack above the door.
I open my eyes slowly.
I exhale—quiet, steady.
Morning has come.
And I'm still alive.
I step toward the door again.
The light makes everything clearer.
I bend down slowly… my eyes fixed on the lock.
The dark color has become less intense.
Now I can see the lines clearly.
Rust is spreading along the edges—more than I had thought.
In the corners, remnants of old food remain.
Tiny, sticky spots—some dried and turned into a rough layer.
I see a thin scratch on the edge of the metal.
It stretches from the corner to the middle of the lock.
I hadn't noticed it yesterday.
I run my finger along it.
It is narrow—but it is there.
As if something pressed here… or scraped it repeatedly.
I look at what is left of my food.
There is still some of it.
I look at the lock again.
I say nothing… but I am thinking about my next move.
I sit in front of the lock.
Place my finger on the rust.
Press it lightly.
It crumbles easily.
I reach in farther.
Wiggle the lock from both sides.
It moves a little… a faint sound, metal groaning.
But it still holds firm.
I try again.
The sound repeats.
Faint… but there.
I think for a moment.
How many days would it take for the rust to eat through the metal completely?
Five? Ten?
Less?
I don't know the answer.
I take a small piece of food.
Dip it into the soup.
Move closer to the lock.
Slowly, I press it against the upper edge.
The soup seeps into the gap.
It shifts slightly… leaves a faint mark.
I repeat the motion.
This time from the other side.
Everything is slow… but I feel like I am doing something.
I leave the small piece in the corner.
Then I sit down.
I lean my back against the wall and watch the lock.
It doesn't move.
Nothing changes.
But the idea has begun.
The light still creeps in from above the door.
And the silence remains heavy.
I just sit there… watching, waiting.
Time moves slowly.
It feels like every second takes a piece of my mind with it.
Nothing moves.
No sound.
Just me… and the lock.
Boredom here is something else.
Not just waiting.
It's a wall pressing against my chest.
I look at the walls.
Then at the door.
Then back at the lock… again.
As if I am trapped in an endless loop.
A long time passes.
The light begins to fade.
The sun pulls back.
The room grows grayer.
Then… black.
I hear footsteps.
Few… steady.
Then the light appears.
A small flashlight, in the hand of someone standing at the door.
I can't see his face.
The light is in front of him, and his shadow covers all his features.
He opens a small hatch at the bottom of the door.
Places something through it… then leaves.
I take the food.
It is similar to the last one.
Slightly warm… and as salty as always.
I sit on the floor.
Eat half of it.
Then wait.
After a while…
The air changes.
Then… a gunshot.
Followed by a second.
Then a third.
Exactly like yesterday.
Then silence returns… once more.
I sit in the dark.
I'm not hungry anymore.
I'm not thinking about the lock.
I am only… hearing my inner voice.
Trembling.
The gunfire… it is closer this time.
Much closer.
I begin to feel something crawling up my body.
Cold.
Weight.
A formless terror.
It isn't just the gunshots.
It is what comes after.
That silence—like an open grave.
I no longer know how much time has passed.
A minute? An hour?
Everything is still.
Except my heart.
A day passes.
Then another.
Then ten.
I wake to the same dim light.
Take food from the same unseen hand.
Place what is left on the lock.
And wait.
Every evening, I sit in my spot.
Look at the door.
Look at the lock.
Then return to the silence.
After two weeks… I hear it.
A gunshot.
Then a second.
Then a third.
Same timing, same echo.
And the next day… nothing.
As if the bullets were just a passing nightmare.
It happens again, two weeks later.
Three gunshots.
Then, no sound.
I count the days with small marks on the wall.
Each time I draw a line, I feel closer.
Not to freedom.
But to the end—whatever that means.
On the twentieth day...
I grab the lock as I always do.
But this time… the sound is different.
I press it.
It moves.
Slightly… but enough.
I pull back, and look at it.
The silence is still the same .
But the lock is not.