How long have I been sitting here?
Hours?
Days?
The windowless walls feel like they’re closing in around me. A single neon light above gives the room an eerie glow and makes every shadow a distorted monstrosity. There I sit, alone, nervously awaiting whoever comes through a lone door in the corner.
Next to me, a small table full of sharp and twisted instruments that will surely be used to inflict excruciating amounts of pain.
I tell myself to not look at them, and yet I can’t look away.
As I silently curse my predicament, I can’t help but think, “please get this over with.” After all, waiting is the worst part.
Actually, it’s the second worst. The worst, of course, is knowing that I have nobody to blame for this predicament but myself. Afterall, it was my choices that led me here.
The door opens and a woman enters. She quietly puts on a pair of rubber gloves and gives me a look that turns my blood cold. I am convinced her overly pleasant smile is hiding an absolutely masochistic psychosis.
