Growing Blurry

I’m slowly going insane in a room with nine doors and no windows. The drain in the lowest part of the floor swallows each drip from the leaky ceiling. The wooden bench is pressed into a corner and can be easily turned into a battering ram if the need arises. The walls have grown dingy and are in need of a good scrub. The light bulb is flickering, attempting to emit the 60 watts of light allowed.
Thirty-four minutes left. It grows hotter. I become more insane. Only one door leads to the exit. The other eight lead to a drowning or burning death.
One more minute has passed. Drip, drip, swish, swish. I’ve fooled myself into believing another soul is present. The bench looks more and more like a violent weapon, its face scratched and eaten at by former inhabitants of this cell. Time moves slowly.
Thirty-one more minutes. The drain looks more and more homey. I can exit there find myself in a place where everything and everyone floats. I can start a family of mole children and we can thrive in the intricate system of drains. It is growing hotter as my body begins to shut down. The only sense of time I have glows faintly across the room.
Twenty-nine minutes. I hope I can deny insanity for that long. I’ve just noticed a vent. It may lead to safety. I dare not risk it as I continue watching the timer and observing the room. The gutter between the tiles is grungy. I feel the need to clean. Whoosh.
At twenty-seven minutes to zero I hear a sudden burst of water behind one of the doors. I dare not investigate for fear of disrupting the secretive process I am a part of. I’ve assumed the fetal position as I write. The light grows dimmer as I realize I’ve still got twenty-three more minutes. Another whoosh and my mind wanders again. At the end of these now…twenty-two minutes, what am I to do and where am I to go? I’ve only got a small sum of money and two bottles of liquid to sustain me, though the liquid does not appeal to my taste buds. I’ve just realized what a lovely blue this pen writes in.
No time has passed. I’m staring at the flickering bulb, willing it to go out to further my lunacy. I’d have no eyes but a heightened sense of hearing to keep me company. A new name for every sound, each unique whoosh, swirl, tumble, thump, growl and scuttle…they all come from somewhere-but where? What name makes the thumping or growling sound? This bench has paint on it. When were they painting here? I should ask it. I wonder if maybe it changed locations since paint was carelessly dribbled on it. These walls haven’t seen a fresh coat of paint, let alone a scrub, in many years.
Eighteen minutes and I grow weary. My eyes are closing and growing blurry. I blink and shadows dance to the beat of the flickering Tungsten. A fire extinguisher-How could there be a fire in such an anti-flammable room? It is scorching hot in here. I seem to have broken a sweat while feverishly recording my manic thoughts.
Sixteen, now fifteen minutes remain. I jump at each new noise-I know no one is coming and no one is watching. I am utterly alone with these nine doors, this bench, these tiles and stained walls, this drain, this notebook and pen. Why am I writing? It feels as if I’ll never see the light of day again. There are no windows here. No sign of grass-or any vegetation or wildlife for that matter, just me and my thoughts and the voices inside my head and the slow rumble and hum of the room-the sounds reverberating against the walls.
Twelve minutes. This room is quite empty. Again, the drain beckons to me. It looks so welcoming. Grime has built up around the circular edge of the grate as madness slowly takes hold of my brain.
Ten minutes remain. I must continue writing. The crack in the base of this wall would make a perfect mouse house. The thought brings a tinge of hope to my sad heart. Another living being within ten square feet. I’m alone and I must resort to creating families out of dust and friends out of grime. I hear the rattle of change. Was it my imagination? No…
Seven minutes endure. I’m growing more anxious and impatient by the second. This has been a harrowing experience so far. I’ve just noticed a horrendous smell. It smells like decay and decomposition. Am I to die here?
Six minutes remain. Some of the aforementioned non-appealing liquid has found its way onto the bench. I want to wipe it away but I have nothing.
Five minutes. This time is inconceivable! It creeps on like a stalker in the night…silently it follows and teases the mind. Yes, you feel like someone is watching. Well, he is. Be frightened. Be terrified.
Four minutes. My back is in need of a good crack or realignment. Another whoosh.
Three minutes. The chain around my neck grows heavier with each passing moment. The rumble decrescendos to a dull roar and the whooshing stops all together.
One more minute. No sound. No sound. Where has the noise I’ve become so accustomed to gone?
Finally, the count reaches zero. I’m relieved.
Now, it’s time to start the dryer.
I refuse to sit here idly and wait. I choose the exit door.