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Fluorescent lights, bright-white walls, ceiling, floor. No windows and no door, as far as he can make out. White clothes. He’s being watched by someone but he’s not sure where from, and it’s driving him insane.
It’s been an hour, maybe two. He sits motionless, because at some point someone’s going to take him out of here. It’s only a matter of time.
–
Time passes. He adjusts his position when his legs start to cramp, otherwise staying completely still. The lights burn into his head. They never turn off, which is standard but unpleasant. He thinks about being somewhere else, which is more difficult than it should be.
He doesn’t think about panicking, because as soon as he shows any sign of cracking they’re going to jump on it like a shark to blood.
–
His lips are chapped and his tongue feels swollen in his mouth. His hair comes untucked from behind his ears, and when he moves it back he feels his stubble, thick enough that it’s probably been a day or two.
Every so often, a dark shape flashes in the corner of his vision. He glances where it originated, and it disappears.
He doesn’t let it bother him, because if he does, there’s no going back.
–
He bobs his head back and forth very, very slightly to keep himself from falling asleep. He’s not sure what would happen if he did. The walls sometimes seem to swell or shrink, the shapes in the corners of his eyes becoming more consistent.
He hears a voice, small and incomprehensible, that disappears into the abyss after a second.
His clothes rub uncomfortably against his skin.
He doesn’t let himself give in to whatever is being done to him, because there has to be a limit to this.
–
He shuts his eyes and opens them once, twice, five, ten times, because the shapes have begun to meld into something comprehensible and they don’t disappear when he looks the other way.
He hears a noise like a wind chime behind his head, turns and sees nothing. A strange whisper accompanies his thoughts, and it sounds like him.
His mouth is moving.
He shuts it and the whispering stops.
And it’s shut, still, and the whispering begins anew, someone else.
Or two. The voices are indistinguishable.
He feels for the ground underneath him, swaying and catching himself before he can fall back.
He’s standing.
“Gute Arbeit,” the ceiling above him mumbles, and the other voices overtake it.
His legs give out.
–
Fluorescent lights, bright-white walls, ceiling, floor. No windows and no door, as far as he can make out. White clothes. He’s being watched by someone but he’s not sure where from, and it’s driving him insane.
It’s been an hour, maybe two. He sits motionless, because at some point someone’s going to take him out of here. It’s only a matter of time.