Only a fan.

January 6

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.
You can't see anything.

It's pitch black.

The air is dense. Heavy. Stifling.

How long have you been here? No clue.
As you begin to fully come to you hear it again. The same rhythmic drone. The fan mechanism of an appliance.

You feel the beads of sweat slowly running down your forehead. Streaming into your eyes. Dripping from your lashes. Infuriating. An insatiable need to wipe them away.

Alas. You cannot. Your arms are tethered. Lashed. Bound into the chair upon which you sit. There is no movement in them. Literally. You can barely feel the cords which contain you.

The seat is metal. That you know. You can feel the steel against your thighs.

But the rest is indistinguishable.

Your breathing is deep. Your torso moving up and down. The sound of its expansion is heightened in this sensory deprivation.

Nothing.

Just the fan. Monotonous.

Then you realise…
Where are your clothes? You can feel far too much of your chair. The scratched metal pressing into you.

You try to move. Your legs are bound as well. Tight against that metallic frame.

The dank air is difficult to endure. But. But…

Your mouth.. There's nothing in your mouth. You could shout or scream. Just fucking do it. You need to do it. But it won't come out. Your mouth is open but you can't do it. Who has put you here? Where are they? Why are you alone in here?

It's difficult to think. But you can't see any other way. You can't move. But you can say something. Maybe there's a person in the street. If there even is a street nearby.

Fuck it.

Fuck it.

You need to do it.

Then you do it….

“Help”.
“Helllp”.

“HELLLO”.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Just the fan.

That fucking fan.

Over and over and

then you hear the footsteps behind you.