The Dead Room

Chapter 1

Where am I now?

I don’t understand. I haven’t understood any of this.

It’s not a hospital although I feel ill enough.

It’s nowhere I’ve ever been and nothing I can smell or touch is familiar to me.

Smell and touch because it is black as sin in here, so dark I can’t see my hand even when I hold it close enough in front of my face to feel my breath on my palm, quick hot bursts of breath as I pant and whimper.

Smell and touch because I hear nothing, no matter how long I try to hold those panicking breaths deep inside and strain my ears.

At last, I have to exhale and it comes out as a sob.

But I have to try to make sense of it. Then I can form a new plan, like the last one. I can escape.

So.

Smell. What do I smell?

Dust and . . . age? Old carpet and old blankets and old . . . What is that staleness? I feel I should know but I can’t name it. It doesn’t belong here. I don’t want to think about it. I won’t admit that I know what it is.

So.

Touch. What can I touch?

The blankets are wool. I feel the roughness on the back of my head and they prickle my hands as I push myself up to sitting. I swing my legs and the carpet beneath my feet is cheap and worn. I can feel i—

My feet are bare! I pat myself all over to find out what I’m wearing. None of it is mine. A robe? I feel tape at the neck. A hospital gown. But this can’t be a hospital. The bed is made of wood.

Where am I?

How did I get here from—

But thinking about the last place thumps me down into chaos and helpless misery, leaves my thoughts skittering and useless. I thought it was working! I thought I was winning! And all that happened is they moved me to somewhere I don’t understand at all.

Who moved me? Who am I talking about? Who’s doing this to me? I don’t know and I can’t try any more to work it out. I can’t do anything to help myself and I can’t make any of it stop. I can’t.

I curl back up on the bed, scratching up the blanket to cover myself, wailing.