THE DREADED WHITE ROOM

“Hello?” I yell.

Hello, hello, hello… mockingly bounces off the white walls of the empty room I’m in. No windows, no door.

And weirdly enough, no ceiling. Just endless nothingness up there.

“Hello!!!” I give in to my rising anger, liberally laced with dread.

Crimson on the white, an elegant cursive starts appearing on a wall.

No Shouting, is the end result. How can two little words exude such supreme arrogance?

“What the fuck?! Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?”

No Cursing, leisurely announces another script.

My hackles rise, icy fingers skittering up my spine.

How did I get in here? And while on the subject, where is here? How does one get out of a room with no exit?

Make one. Duh.

I go to a wall—one free of freaky writing of course—and give it a solid kick. Nothing. Not even a crumble of plaster. Nothing except the pain in my toes.

Why am I shoeless?

No matter. I keep at it, adding my fists to the endeavour.

No Fighting, emerges under my blows, and I stumble backward.

Now I’m spitting mad. Mad, not terrified. Not at all!

“No spitting,” whispers a mocking voice just behind me.

I whirl around. And there is he.