You wake up, suddenly gasping as your lungs claw for air. Who are you? What's your past? You don't know. You stand, wobbling, your muscles unused to the task, and you look around.
You find yourself in a room.
It's simple, really. Drywall, concrete floor, much like a prison block, really, with a tiny window near the roof, but no doors. You examine the room, searching the corners for a secret button which might open a trapdoor, but there is nothing. You finally come to the window and consider it for a moment. It is no more than a rectangular hole in the wall, but you might just be able to squeeze through it, and see what's on the other side. You stretch, standing on your toes, and your hands just clear the window. You jump, scraping your arms, but managing to grasp the other side of the window, and with great difficulty, you pull yourself up.
The window is claustrophobic, constricting, and you get caught around your ribcage. You struggle, floundering like a fish on land, but somehow you wiggle through. You land on the floor with a thump, only just managing not to crack your head open. You are disappointed to find yourself lying on musty brown carpet and not grass, and you look up.
You find yourself in a room.
It is more elaborately furnished, with a heavy mahogany bed and a chest of drawers. There are suspicious scratches covering both items, which look like they were made of human fingernails, and you shudder, trying to ignore it. You approach the bed warily, afraid of the darkness beneath it, but when nothing leaps out to grab your ankle, you crouch to look under it. Nothing is there. You get up to look at the drawers, but you only find them filled with blank paper. The back of your neck tingles; Have you been here before? There is something oddly creepy about the handsome room.
There is a hammering under the bed, as if someone is underneath the floor, trying to get out, and you jump, too afraid to scream. It stops, and you crouch on the floor again, shaking with fear. You do not want to look, but it's so... Inviting, and you can't resist crawling under the dusty bed. There is a square which is wooden, and you let your hands wander over it. You find a ring, and you pull on it, and the square of wood, or the door, as you have now discovered, slides into the floor. You don't know what lies in the big, gaping hole that has opened beneath you, but you slide in anyway, turning yourself feet first to you do not brush with Death again.
You land with a splash, and you figure you must be in a basement. It's pitch black, though you don't understand why; the other rooms had no source of lighting. Indeed, they seemed to glow themselves, but this place emanates darkness, despair and panic, and has a foul, acrid stench to it. You crawl desperately around on the floor, the freezing water chilling you to your bones. You find a wall, a table, a small box on the table. Feeling the rough edges, the shape and design of the box, you realise that they are matches. You take one out and strike it against the side of the box.
You find yourself in a room.
You are standing in a dark liquid, and it comes up to your mid-calf, and is the source of the smell. The orange glow of the match provides a shivering, eerie light, sending shadows leaping playfully in the corners, their hands snatching at you. The match is burning down, and sears your fingernails, and you drop it with a spasm of the hand. Too late, you realise, the liquid was petroleum; You howl as your hand bursts into flame, the foul stench of burnt flesh filling your nostrils. The floor is a waving river of fire, and you stumble backwards, your burning clothes sticking painfully to your skin. You hit the wall behind you, eyes stinging, desperately trying to escape, and fall backwards in surprise as the wall disappeared. It closes, and you stare at it in wonder, ignoring the pain for a moment.
You revert back to your current situation, and pat out the flames desperately, wincing as you hit your burns, but you are more or less unhurt. You'll survive. You stand on the white tiled floor, which is seared from the heat of the fire and blackened from the charcoal.
You find yourself in a room.
It is completely tiled in white, creepily sterile, the only difference in the steady pattern is a somewhat larger tile in the ceiling and the black marks from you rolling on the floor. You examine the marks on the floor; you are sure you didn't create all of those. Has someone been there before you? You wish you could lie on the floor and sleep, but curiosity is tugging you forward, and you look at the square in the roof. It must be another door.
The ceiling is quite low, so you can brush it with your fingers, but you have no idea how to open the door. There is no handle, and you can hardly fit your fingernails around its frame. In your anger, you hit the door, bruising your knuckles painfully, but with results; the weak plaster has cracked, and you can peer into the room behind it. By pushing through the plaster more you can pull yourself up into the next room, your muscles shrieking with exhaustion, and you collapse on the floor. It's unpleasantly cold in this room, as if there were a breeze, but you can tell by the hardwood floor you are not outside. Finally you raise your head, your eyes adjusting to the darkness so you can ascertain your position in the dim light.
You find yourself in a room.
This one is simpler; an octagonal room, each wall with a wooden door, and a plaster square in the floor where you broke through. You stand up, wondering which door to go through. You know once you go through you won't be able to go back, so you must choose carefully, but it's difficult. Each door looks the same as the next, and you decide to test Lady Luck. Closing your eyes and outstretching a pointed hand, you spin in a circle and stop yourself suddenly. Opening your eyes dizzily, you walk towards the door you pointed to. It swings forwards on its hinges, not making a sound, and you walk forwards, nervously excited.
You find yourself in a room.
This room is plain, concrete walls, blocky and plain, but familiar. You look behind you for the wooden door, but it has disappeared. Where did it go? You turn to examine the boxy room, and spot a small rectangular hole... This is getting too familiar... You leap up and wriggle through it, getting caught in it yet again, but pulling through, uncaring for the scrapes you are rewarded with on your stomach, but you eventually burst through, hurtling headfirst into the heavy bed.
You find yourself in a room.
You are so tired, and the room is spinning. You grasp the heavy bed, trying to support yourself, but gravity seems to be working against you, and you find yourself falling to the floor. You continue to cling onto the scratched bed, but you cannot stop yourself; You bend your fingernails backward as you try to claw your way back up to standing position.
It is hopeless. Your legs don't want to obey you, so you begin to crawl to the side of the bed – Maybe if you slept for a while, things would be better.
The mattress is too high up, though, and you need to stand up. You try the same approach you used with the bed, try to get a purchase upon the dresser by using your fingernails, but to no avail. You seem to be losing command over your limbs, your legs dragging motionlessly behind you and your fingers no more useful than ten sausages glued to your hands.
You remember the bed, and you roll under it. You don't want to be surprised by the thing hammering the floor. You find the trapdoor easy enough, but you're unable to open it – Using the metal ring was like threading a needle in pitch black. There is a small thwump behind you, and you panic – Could it be some sort of monster? You lose your temper and grasp the small circle with a hand, and shake it as hard as you can, and it makes a horribly loud banging noise, polished wood against polished wood, louder than a drum. It slides, you remember, and you drop yourself into the black, trying to remember what comes next.
You find yourself in a room
It's the black room, smelling horribly of burnt petrol, but you rembeber which wall to break through, and you stumble blindly to it, knocking over a tin and hitting your shin painfully. The smell of petrol fills the air again, and you trip, sprawling ungracefully to the floor. You feel, underneath your hand a small box – Matches. Fate, perhaps? You place it on the table you know it there, then hurtle through the wall adjacent to it, not wondering once why the table or matches has burnt away with the rest of the room.
You find yourself in a room.
You're in the white room, the plaster in the room perfectly intact, but you break through it easily, pulling yourself up...
You find yourself in a room.
It's the wooden room, and you lunge through the first door you see, crashing through manically, afraid of what was coming, desperate for escape.
You find yourself in a room.
It's grey, blocking, a hole in the wall which you take a running jump at, feeling hopelessly desperate, opening the scrapes on your stomach again and crashing onto the floor.
You find yourself in a room.
You barely notice the finery as the harsh battering noise filled the air you slip under the bed, determined to catch its source only to find the door sliding shut. You pull it open and wriggle into the black hole.
You find yourself in a room.
You lurch across the room, opening the matchbox with shaking fingers, striking one, just to see the wall knitting itself back together. The match sears your fingers and you bash through the wall as the liquid alights yet again.
You find yourself in a room.
You crawl about the sterile floor, determined to find another door, a way out, marking the floor with your burnt clothes and flesh. You give up, and break through the plaster on the ceiling to get to the wooden room with the doors.
You find yourself in a room.
You open the next door and step through it backwards. You watch as the door knits itself into the concrete wall, disappearing and trapping you. You turn, with a sense of dread, to assess your surroundings, finding they are but concrete, a blank prison cell...
You find yourself in a room.
In a house.
Lost.