THICK

Thick, sticky, almost firm, but not quite. The rubbery film stuck to my fingers as I raised my hand from the ground. I ran my fingers through the semi-solid attempting to determine what my hand had woken me up to. It was dark, still, when I opened my eyes. Where was I?
I sat myself up, wide eyed hoping to take in any rare beam of light scattered in this…this room? I shook my head, attempting to recall how I had gotten here. Nothing.
I leaned back planting both hands on the floor behind me. My left planted back into the sticky film from before. It felt odd, like drying white out; perhaps paint. My right hand found the cold touch of concrete. Most certainly concrete.
The air was warm and stale. The smell of paint was more evident now, and backed my suspicions of the unknown film on my fingers. Concentrating further, another smell tickled my nose, faint, but most certainly present, lingering in my nostrils, toying with my senses. I could not tell what the smell was, but it reminded me of…of what?
Why is everything so distant?
What happened?
Why the hell am I here?
I bowed my head and leaned forward, hands now in front of me. I felt my left hand with my right; the paint was near drying. I could not see for sure, but it felt as though the paint did not transfer from hand to hand.
I sat, arms folded in front of me, bridging my knees to rest the weight of my chin.
What do I do?
Focusing on nothing my ears perked to a faded noise, a drip, barely audible. I leaned into the sound waiting for another, but lost any further drips to the deafening silence.
Did I just imagine that noise?
Where did it come from?
How far away?
Why only one drip?
I lowered my head once again. It hurt; it hurt to think, it hurt even more not to. I ran over my options…limitless it seemed. After…five, ten, fifty minutes...
…Why am I here?
I grabbed at my shirt and ran my hand down the sleeves. This was the same shirt I was wearing…earlier, I suppose. My grey shirt, long sleeves, though made of a very thin fabric and breathed well. I had torn the right cuff, and as such always kept my sleeves rolled up, making sure to roll them inward. This was still the case. My pants, blue jeans, fairly new. I reached into my pockets to find all of their original contents. In my left pocket my debit card and driver license. I had removed them from my wallet that morning because I found my wallet too bulky with these pants. In my right pocket, a tube of chap stick. I leaned to my right side and slid my hand into my left back pocket. I felt what I assumed was the twenty-five dollars I had left in the pocket from the last time I had worn the pants. I shifted my weight to my left side and slid my hand as before into my other pocket to find…a piece of paper; a small one, partially torn, conceivably from a larger piece of paper. I pulled it out and unfolded it in front of me. Holding it close to my eyes I strained to see what, if anything, was written on it. I swept my fingers across the paper and felt no indents. I placed the paper back into my pocket and lowered my head between my legs once again.
After what felt like ten minutes I decided it was best to explore my immediate surroundings. I slowly laid on my stomach, flat, arms to my sides, legs straight. I ran each my left and right arm out in an arcing motion, reminding myself of the days when I would make snow angels; a paint angel it would seem this time, as my left arm was now most certainly covered in the paint. The paint ran well beyond the reach of my left arm and ended just clear of my elbow. My right arm felt nothing but more cold concrete. As I ran my arms back and forth along the cold floor I could sense a slight slope, sloping down and away from my current position.
Typical drainage slope
After exhausting my reach I repeated the process with my legs. My left leg swung out uninterrupted, but it was not long before my right was stopped by what felt like a wall. I upped myself to a prone position and slowly crawled backwards until I could feel the wall with both feet. The wall was also concrete with no baseboard or base-plate, I ran my fingers along the wall and floor intercept to find that it was uniformly poured during its construction. I turned to face the wall and ran my hands in all directions as far as I could reach while staying on my knees and felt nothing. I turned back to the…empty room?
My head hurt again. I leaned my back against the wall the lowered my head.


Time had passed, it was difficult to say how much; maybe fifteen minutes, maybe more, maybe less. I lifted my head and stared into the darkness which surrounded me…
…Why did nothing make sense?
I sat against the wall, my head burning from the inside. It was unusual for me to experience even a headache, yet I could not help but feel that even a migraine would be more pleasant that this…
…What happened to me?
What have they done?
Who the hell is they?
My head my slowly tearing itself apart form the within. Sharp pains blasting from the depths of my head, breaching the base of my skull with an icy cold touch; it was too much. Then…nothing. The pain was gone.
It was time to move, time to explore this…this place. My brave thoughts were followed only by hesitation, deciding to move left or right along the wall. In the end, I found myself drawn to explore the wall to my left, perhaps to find the source of the paint. Staying low to the ground and keeping my back to the wall, I slowly shifted my way to my left. After five, maybe ten feet, I could feel the thickness of the paint beneath my left foot, soon after, beneath my right. With my left are extended and flush against the wall I continued to slide down the length of wall, slowly and cautiously, making sure to keep my senses vigilant.