Emerge in a room, bringing everything but your senses. Forget about the five things that give purpose to inanimate objects as you follow the story of a person who finds themselves in a situation with no memories, and no sense of how to escape.


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A comforting pain overwhelms my fist as the thing that had stood before me staggers to the floor. I shake my hand, as if that would relieve the now throbbing pain. It is not subdued. I bend each of my fingers separately, finding that my thumb is in a poorer condition than the rest. I had no time to think before striking the creature, therefore no time to take proper form and protect the well-being of my nimble fingers. My thumb had been tucked under the rest of my fingers, leaving it vulnerable to be broken. Vulnerability, along with insanity, seems to be common in a room that radiates nothing but the aspect of an open mind.

I consider kneeling down to the ground to feel for the creature that my hand made contact with, but am afraid to be on the same level as it, even after proving my power over it. My head, again deciding to use fear to create unlikely scenarios, decides that if I kneel down, the creature would then seize me in its hands again. To compromise with my worrisome mind, I sweep my bare foot across the floor to find the creature, rather than feeling with my pulsing hand. I lay my foot softly on the floor, slowly caressing the light ground, soon running into something soft and almost warm. I kick it slightly, but no movement is reciprocated. I then decide it is now safe to kneel down to examine more about this creature. I turn away from the thoughts of my head, and sit on the ground, weightless.

I use my hands, as I cannot use my eyes. What I feel is nothing short of familiar. Hair lined the edges of a cool face. This face has skin, somewhat rough but also smooth as if it had never been touched before. There is a nose much like my own, and a slightly parted mouth that is unmistakably dry. I then attempt to picture what this person looks like, but touch is almost useless without the guidance of sight. Almost unable to believe this is in fact a human laying before me, I attempt to find the hands that had held my legs in the water. Once found, I am able to count five fingers. My worry subsides, turning to anxiousness, waiting for this new companion, or adversary, to awaken. Perhaps I had hit this person harder than I had intended, although I had intended to strike them hard. I sit, singing to pass the time that seems to never pass quickly, now holding on to the hand of the new person. It is somewhat comforting to have the company, even though this is unconscious company.

I am no longer afraid of anything that surrounds me, if anything. However, I do continue to attentively listening for recurring droplets. Thinking back to the only memories that occupy my mind, I do not want to relive the close drowning incident. Gaining comfort from the warmth of the human next to me, I rest my weary eyelids. The fingers of the person opposite to me tighten, and I resist sudden movement. As the person begins to become aware of me and of the darkness again, their grip is released from mine. I stagger back, and up on my feet, afraid of their advances. The comfort that had sat with me in this room before, but has now vanished. Fear ran ramped in my seemingly small and unmoving head. False comfort converts to itself to a sense of danger with the everlasting help of fear.

I hold my arms out, waving them in small, conserved patterns, in attempt to keep the person from coming close without me knowing it. My hands, which had once been used for simple tasks, such as writing or picking up a fork, were now my makeshift radar. There seems to be no movement, as there also is no sound. I wonder if the person is still on the floor, or had simply walked away. I contemplate whether to try and speak to the person, or hold back. “Hello?” I decidedly say, my voice under significant strain. “Hello,” I say again, this time much clearer. There is no response to this vocal gesture. My hands still out, I walk closer to where the person had been laying on the floor. I again, try to speak. Then, without any verbal confirmation, a five-fingered hand grabs my shaking arm, holding me still. This does not seem to be with anger or any intention of harming me.

His hand lightly holds my arm, assuring me that there is no danger in his presence. For a reason I am not aware of, I believe this gesture. I do, for the moment, kept from yelling at the boy before me. My head is full to the brim with thoughts of using this moment to reprimand the boy for potentially drowning me. It had seemed that the time spent submerged in the cold water was the last of my time spent in this dark room, or in any room. Cutting the silence, a voice that is not my own speaks with complete clarity, “You’ve got one rough punch there.” The voice is unfamiliar to my ears, but recognizable to my head. The sound of it is resounding, yet high and light, belonging to a young man. A comment on my attack is, of course, not exactly the dramatic line that I would expect to come from such a dramatic moment. I am set off guard by the somewhat unexpected dialogue, and decide that my informal plan to admonish the young man is now unnecessary.

I do not respond, and this is not because I do not want to respond, but because I simply do not know what to say. I feel as if I no longer know how to interact with another person after an extended period of time with absolutely no interaction at all. Whether it is the fact that I am nervous in the presence of this stranger or that I am overly comfortable in their light aura, I am unable to speak. Thankfully, he fills the soundless void again, “Welcome to The Blank,” he says, a hint of excitement in his tone. Even without my vision to guide me in this time, I know there must be a grin on his face.

My mind begins to pick apart each word that fell out of his mouth, coming to a stop at the last two words in his short, meaningful phrase. Now, my curiosity would not allow me to be silent, “What is The Blank?” I ask, anxiously waiting for a concise response. This, I do not get. Instead, the silence that I had given before is now on the other end of the conversation. Instead of explaining the meaning of his words, the boy grabs my arm again and begins to walk. I seem to have to tell my feet to start walking, as they seem to be stuck on the seemingly nonexistent floor. I take a deep, prolonged breath, and will my legs to carry me after the boy in front of me.

 Walking behind the boy, my mind continues the thought process that does not have to do with the room itself, but rather the words used by the boy to describe the room. What could he mean by a phrase such as “The Blank” and why would he use it freely without the slightest hint of explanation. I do, however, no longer fear the room. Whether it is the familiarization with my surroundings or the presence of another human being, I am now at ease. Walking here, again in silence, I rest my eyelids and concentrate on my stumbling breaths.


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