The ground he awoke on was moist, almost mud. He didn't want to open his eyes. His sleep had been unpleasant, but any sleep was good sleep now that he had gotten another promotion. He heard a dripping sound and the buzz of neon lights. This wasn't normal. If he was in his bed, the only noise he would hear was is son's humidifier in the next room. But there was no humidifier, only the drip and the buzz. He opened his eyes and peered around.
The room was nothing like his upper class apartment. It was dirty, wreaked of death and mold, narrow and brightly lit. Three of the four walls were barren of all but dirt and rust. The fourth wall was decorated with nails, knife blades, and other sharp instruments that started a few, maybe two yards up. On one nail about a foot off the ground, hung a digital tape recorder, which he took and pushed the black play button.
A rasp came on over the speaker. "Hello Reilly. Along your way to the top, you have cut people out of your life. Now it's your turn. In front of you is a wall of blades. You must climb this wall to the top where there is a door. This door is your only escape." Reilly looked up and saw an opening about ten yards up. "You must make it out in ten minutes or the door will slam shut, leaving you in this chamber to suffocate. Let the game begin."
He knew screaming for help would be pointless, so he didn't bother. He stepped on the nail the tape recorder had been on and began to push himself up when the nail gave way and he fell back against the opposite wall. He heard a ticking noise. A timer. He reached in the air and grabbed a nail pointing upward and a clever blade and began to pull himself up. The pain was worse than he thought it would be as the blade cut into his hands, but he kept going. Although he spent mostly all his time in the office, he made an effort to go to the gym once a week so it wasn't hard to pull himself up, minus the pain. Then it occurred to him, if he had the time to go to the gym to keep his still remaining high school figure, couldn't he have made an effort to eat a couple nights with his family.
He shook the thought out his head and continued to pull himself up. This was no time for self-hatred. He had to stay focused.
He was nearly halfway up by this time and still plunged forward, reaching for the blades of steak knives and chains from chainsaws and crowbars. His hands had become slippery with blood and his bare feet had been cut to the bone. As he reached for a chain wrapped in barbwire, he slipped. He fell to the wet ground and didn't move. Had he broken anything? He had not, but he felt like he had sprung his ankle. He sat up and eyed the wall. How was he going to do this.