Description of a Room by Tiana Webb (psychology books to read TXT) 📖

The sound of dripping was what woke me. The annoyance of the constant sound brought me back from the void of unconsciousness. As I slowly regain my bearings, the pounding of my head makes itself known. I try to bring my hand down to hold my head, when I realise my predicament. The abrasive touch of the rope holding my hands above my head hurts as I struggle to free my hands from the too-tight bindings.

Giving up on the rope for now, as my wrists start to bleed, I look up to assess the room. It is quite dark with only a dim bulb, hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room, struggling to keep back the oppressive darkness. My bare back is against the wall, and I can feel the disgusting feeling of something slimy clinging to it. The room has an overwhelming stench of dampness and mildew and I have to force myself not to be sick.

The incessant sound of water is slowly driving me towards the brink of insanity. I frantically search for the source of the noise, knowing it’s somewhere close to me. I spot an old, rusting metal bucket sitting under an old-fashioned pipe that seems to be leaking. The bucket is close enough to me to reach with my foot and I kick it over and away from the dripping pipe, ignoring the jarring coldness of the metal.

The bucket is fuller than it seems, and a lot of water splashes back at me, some finding its way into my mouth. I gag and choke on the taste of the horribly stagnant water, shivering as the cold water seeps into my clothes and makes me colder than I was.

I set to work again on freeing my hands, ignoring the pain lancing up my arms, and by some miracle finally pull one hand away from the rough rope. I let out a cry of relief and surprise and quickly untangle my other hand from the offending rope. My shoulders scream in agony from the change in position, making my wonder how long I’ve been in this horrible room.

I try to pull myself up with help from the wall, but I recoil when my fingers slip through the awful smelling gunk on the wall. Instead I use the floor to help me up. The roughness of the cold concrete does nothing to help the throbbing in my hands as a struggle to get up. I climb unsteadily to my feet and slowly make my way to the middle of the room.

The only way out is the door at the top of the stairs on the other side of the room. I hurry over to it, eager to leave this godforsaken room. I scramble up the wooden stairs, ignoring the feeling of the rough, broken wood against my skin, and turn the handle. A cry of despair leaves me as I realise it’s locked. Of course it is. Now what do I do?

Publication Date: 03-14-2017

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