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| 27 Oct 2012 03:49 PM |
Your eyes flutter open; light drifts into the room from a closed window, gently kissing the surface of your face. You sit up on the bed that once kept you comfort. The sheets have wrapped around you to form a cloak, keeping you in a vacant embrace of its silk. It will be the only warmth you ever feel and the only pleasure to touch your skin. The room holds nothing other than a desk and a door. On the bland, scratched wall you can clearly see words painted on top. If you had to guess, the substance might be soot.
‘Good morning.’
What will you do? |
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| 27 Oct 2012 03:49 PM |
| Stand up, wrapping the sheets around me. |
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| 27 Oct 2012 03:54 PM |
| You hold your weight up on your brittle legs, your back hunches over in the still air. With two hands full of the sheets you wrap your arms around yourself. You keep beneath it, relishing in the feeling it gives you. |
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| 27 Oct 2012 03:55 PM |
| Walk to the message, and take a sample of it with my fingers. Feel the substance, trying to determine what it is. |
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| 27 Oct 2012 04:05 PM |
| You hobble over slowly towards the message. The covers escape one of your hands, brushing your fingertips as they fall. You hold out one of your fingers and rub it downwards against the letter 'O', which causes it to smudge slightly. As you feel the smooth yet gritty substance against your skin, you confirm that it is soot. |
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| 27 Oct 2012 04:05 PM |
| Why would I have soot in my house? I don't recall a fire place here. Let's open the window. |
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| 27 Oct 2012 06:03 PM |
| The lack of furniture in your so called home tips you a bit further on the subject of suspicion. You look up towards the window, the light still beams gently from its surface. Ponderously you make your way over to it and grasp the bottom between your fingers. The sheets fall again from your other hand. Even with your greatest force you are unable to open it up. Perhaps you are too weak, or it may simply be closed for good. |
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| 27 Oct 2012 07:57 PM |
| Probably too weak, I never was strong. Wrap the sheets around me, and search under the bed. Hey, in almost every escape game a key or something is under the bed! |
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| 28 Oct 2012 01:50 PM |
| You gather a handful of sheets in your hands again and keep them close to you as you make your way towards the bed. While on both knees you duck your head down and look. There is nothing underneath save for a bit of dust. |
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| 28 Oct 2012 03:44 PM |
| Knew it. Is there a door? Sorry, my brain is a bit patchy today, so I'm not thinking very clearly. |
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| 28 Oct 2012 04:52 PM |
| There is a door. The surface is painted white, much like the rest of the room. |
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| 28 Oct 2012 04:53 PM |
take rpg
blow house down
open door
win rp
dance
Twist the knob. |
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| 28 Oct 2012 06:10 PM |
You place your hand on the knob; the door opens with little struggle. In front of you lays a blank hallway the same colour as the room. Underneath your skin you can feel something move.
Written on the wall directly in front of you, right before the passage way curves is something written in green paint. 'Is something wrong?' |
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| 28 Oct 2012 06:15 PM |
[I feel like you ripped something off.]
Softly step over to the green paint, and slam my fist against it. Over and over again... |
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| 28 Oct 2012 06:29 PM |
[ knowing my past experiences, this probably sounds similar to something that i never intended it to sound like. i can honestly say i did not base it off of anything. :>]
You inch slowly to the silent words with hands still clutching the soft cloak wrapping around your body. They fall from you fingers again. Your hands ball up and you start to feel your fingernails piercing your skin. You can feel yourself shake. So feeble, so pathetic. You throw the fist forward and it collides with the wall. It hurts so much, but you don't stop. You continue until the pain becomes unbearable and your hand goes limp. As you slide down the wall you feel your fingers clinging onto the paint, scratching it. It's your only saviour. You need it. You want to feel them being said. You don't want to see them. |
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| 28 Oct 2012 06:30 PM |
| Cradle my hand, waiting for it to stop throbbing. |
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| 28 Oct 2012 06:40 PM |
| You hold your hand in the other and wait for it stop hurting. All you do in this time is sit by yourself and listen to the silence around you. The sound of the air moving is not even present. Later rather than sooner, your hand returns to normal. |
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