It Came at Lunch

Day 226, or so I believe.

It’s hard to count when the only concept of time is the fluorescents being turned off and on. The room is the same, no changes that I can spot. The metal sink and toilet combo are in the back right corner, a floor mattress was to the left, all within the confines of this white-tiled cube. I woke to find breakfast atop fresh white sheets, clothes, and a washcloth on the floor against the wall that I considered the frontest wall.

Today’s meal? Plain, cream-colored mush as usual. Consistently, this had been my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The bowl was still warm to the touch and I quickly slurped it down with my hands.

After finishing, I rinsed the bowl, and my hands, in the sink and placed it back on the floor, next to the stack of linen. I snatched up the washcloth and cleaned myself in the sink - wetting the rag, ringing it out, wiping, and repeating - until I felt somewhat better. I threw my soiled clothing, along with the rag, on top of the empty bowl, and threw on the clean outfit. I stripped the bed of its sheets and replaced them with fresh ones, and now, I sit, writing this for the sake of my sanity.

I know someone is watching me. I’ve scoured the room countless times for cameras, in the dark and light, but have yet to have found one.

On day 9, I paced the floor, and when I awoke the next morning, alongside the regular stack of things was a fifty sheet, one-hundred page, blank spiral notebook equipped with a black pen. The cover was white and written in the middle was the digits AL1-6503 with permanent marker.

By day 46, I had ripped out twenty pages from frustration and filled whatever was left with stories, updates, and drawings. The following day, a new notebook had appeared, identical to the last. The only changing factor was the digits on the front which now read AL2-6503. I am currently writing in AL7-6503.

I can’t remember how I got here, though every day I try to. Truthfully, I’ve forgotten a lot of things. My name, my life before this, even what I look like. I’ve tried filling the sink with water or even staring into its metal frame to see my reflection, but I don’t seem to have one. I know that my skin was tan-ish in the beginning, or at least my other journals tell me, but it has now faded. To keep my body from further deteriorating, I do my daily routine of 50 sit-ups, push-ups, squats, and jumping jacks. After finishing, I scribble in this journal until lunch.

My nose noticed lunch arrived before my eyes did. I looked up and saw a plate of cooked chicken and a side of broccoli. Astonishingly not mush. I rushed the plate like a starving animal and scarfed the flavorful meal down with no hesitation. I rubbed my full belly and proceeded to rinse my plate in the sink. That is when it appeared out of thin air.

A box. Large enough to fit me within it comfortably and wrapped in brown paper.

I was amazed and frightened by its arrival.

Why was it here? Why was I gifted a box?

I stared at it from my bed for what felt like an eternity, rarely blinking, until the lights clicked off and I slowly drifted to sleep.

Day 229. Three days since the box’s arrival.

In the last two days, I have noticed a few of the small tiles in the middle of the front wall have turned black and the box remained. They have taken me back to a mush diet, only feeding me once a day now. The box is clearing destroying my clean and comfortable room. I pleaded with the emptiness in hopes that my captors would see me and rid me of it.

Why am I being punished? What effect does the box have on my room? What have I done to deserve this?

Day 232. Six days since the box’s arrival.

Today, I was not provided with clean linen. Only a bowl of cold mush sat on the floor next to the box. But today is somewhat a good day. I have made two discoveries.

The first one, the bad before the good, is that the front wall had twenty-two new black tiles overnight, now totally thirty-eight altogether. I counted. I don’t understand why they are changing, but I heard someone, a woman possibly, humming on the other side of the wall nearest my bed on the bright side of things.

I thought I was going crazy, but it became more prominent when I placed my ear against the wall. It was a familiar melody, maybe a song from my childhood that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. I recollected, looking for proof within my other six journals, but I have never written about a sound till today. No matter. I am happy to not be alone. I banged on the wall in hopes that they would hear me. To no avail, they ignored, continuing to repeat the melody over and over again.

Day 236. Ten days since the box’s arrival.

Last night, I could barely sleep. After four days and three nights of listening to my neighbor’s repetitive harmonic tune, it had ceased. Now all I hear is her weeping sorrows. When I would shut my eyes and try to rest, her wails would grow louder, and, for a moment, it felt as if she was sitting right next to me.

When the lights finally clicked on, my body felt overly drained. The cold mush, my only form of energy, was a blessing and I crouched over it, shoveling it into my mouth like a mongrel. I was too distracted to notice that the front wall was no longer matching its white affiliates. The black tiles had spread so rapidly and my curiosity had bested me. I touched it. I placed my bare palm against it and, contrary to my thoughts, it squished like slim under pressure. It didn’t leave a residue. I tried forcing through it, even stabbing it with my pen, but it was impenetrable, and infecting the other parts of the room.

I suspect it’s affecting the wiring in the walls. The lights are starting to flicker and I fear they will soon go out. I don’t know what to do. I can’t sleep another night with the wailing woman.

And the box.

The box.

The box.

The box.

It has begun to whisper, but only when my eyes are shut. Its words, faint and indistinguishable, were taunting me. I picked it up, I shook it, I screamed at it, I threw it against the floor, but, still, with every blink, it whispers.

Day 239. Thirteen days since the box’s arrival.

The box and wailing woman silenced, replaced by a low beeping noise. I was able to sleep last night, but this may be the final time I can report. I may not stay alive to see another day. Any hope of rescue has vanished at this point.

My body’s circadian rhythm, the internal clock, had awoken me today, not the lights. I laid not on my bed, but on the used-to-be floor. When my eyes finally adjusted, the room was almost entirely taken over by the black goop. Among those walls, graffitied in bioluminescent paint, arrows were pointing directly to the box. I am writing this under the light of the arrows closest to the box, as they shine the brightest.

The last bit of white tile on the other side of the room is slowly disappearing. The goop had eaten the toilet, sink, bed, and my other journals. I’ve tried to scream, but the room silenced me.

The box silenced me.

For the last hour, I’m estimating, I’ve been crying. I can’t hear my sobs, only my slowing heartbeat. I feel numb. My body is no longer mine. My thoughts were no longer mine. I have forgotten everything. I couldn’t imagine the room and its layout. My eyes grew heavy with each labored breath. I was given a choice, let go and succumb to the dark or open the box.

I reached out and it convulsed vaguely. It began to whisper again.

open. open. open.

I touched it, the wrapping paper was cold and wet like the bottom of a sunless ocean. When I pressed my fingers against it, the wrapping paper squished into a soggy mash.

It’s shrieking.

OPEN! OPEN! OPEN!

Now, I’ve pulled myself to lean over it. It’s very hard to breathe. My hands are trembling as I write my last sentence. Whoever finds this, I hope you can find an escape. I’ve decided I’m going to open the box.