by SJ Longtaile
An empty room with nothing but a bottle, a diary, and a pen.
|Prompt: You are locked inside a room with nothing inside there. You just have a water bottle and a diary with pen.
Courtesy of Lurie Park.
There was nothing in the room…nothing save for a bottle of water, a diary, a pen, and me.
Something, maybe a faint little voice in the dark recesses of my mind whispered, telling me that I should find this disconcerting…but I found I didn’t have any concerting for the dis.
Sitting up, I look around, the floor was cold and plain cement, the ceiling was white stucco, the walls were scratched and blotchy in some places.
It’s quiet, like a bated breath just waiting to exhale.
I shift, my hand brushes over the pen, it rolls into the diary.
I pick up the diary, opening to the first page.
There’s writing, illegible to my eyes, but writing nonetheless. Flipping through the diary I find the pages riddled with writing, every few pages the writing changes, like several people wrote in it. Some of it I can read.
The first entry that I can read looks like it was written by a child, the letters wiggly and uneven.
I don’t know where I am, I want to go home, it says. I’m cold and hungry, I don’t like the scary voices. My tummy hurts.
Flipping to the next entry, it looks like an adult’s hand is holding the pen now, an adult who still knows how to write cursive, the lines curled and elegant.
My cursive reading ability is low, the only words I can read clearly are at the end in big and bold lines, like the pen was under extreme pressure.
Don’t drink the water.
The water? I think, looking over at the bottle next to me.
It’s innocuous enough, just an ordinary plastic bottle with the label torn off.
I reach for it, my hand hesitating before grasping it, the flimsy plastic crinkling in my grip, the sound seeming too loud for the quiet of the room.
I twist the cap off and raise it up to my nose, sniffing.
Shrugging, I put the cap back on and put the bottle down.
Turning back to the diary, I notice some of the pages are stained black.
Flipping through, I find the stained entry. It’s a messy thing, like chaos on a page.
Words are scribbled all over, in every corner, at every angle, the stains are from where the pen rolled out ink clots which where then smudged presumably by the hand that was controlling the pen.
I twist and turn the diary in my hands, trying to read.
This handwriting is slanted at a sharp angle and scratchy, the capitals large and elongated disproportionately to the under case letters.
I can make out about a third of the words here.
Aluminum sulphite soup.
But then, as I twist the diary around till it’s upside down I see a question wrapped around the Aluminum sulphite soup.
Do you remember what happened? I blink, pondering the question.
I don’t remember much of anything.
Turning the diary some more, I follow the trailing question smushed against the slanted question mark.
Are you sure you’re awake?
Tilting my head to the side I think, I don’t know.
The next question is; Are you sure you’re alive?
A ringing drones in my ears, like the reverb of a giant bell.
That is a good question, I think.
I blink and the room is gone, nothing but darkness all around me.
The diary still in my hands, I read the last question under the word wolfsbane.
Are you sure you didn’t drink the water?
I look at the bottle.
It’s half empty.