CREEPYPASTA

A Room

"Am I going to die in here, Herbert?"

"Yes, John, you're going to die in here."

"Why though?"

"Go back to sleep, John."

The loud speaker made the usual cracking noise, before the room fell into a deathly silence. John shivered under the thin blankets provided for him, he was dying. It had been ninety days since he had eaten regular food, six since he was given a pill, and one hundred and sixteen since he last saw a human being. The world felt lonely.

John tried to force his body to sleep but the hunger won out. He rose from the bed and paced around the tiny 12 foot cube. He reached the one side of the room, checked the tiny drop box, found nothing, and turned around. When he reached the other side, he would pause and look outside the window, where he could observe the wall of dirt, seemingly inches away. It wasn't spectacular by any means, but John found when you got desperate enough, you could see anything you wanted. Lush, tropical rain forests, busy vibrant street corners, even your own house, but in the end, it was just dirt. He might as well be dead already.

Squeaking noises filled the tiny cube as John paced back and forth for what must have been an hour. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he started to feel tired again and his stomach no longer hurt. It just felt like a void, like something was missing inside of him, so he returned to his small bed where he tossed and turned, until falling into an uneasy sleep. There was no such thing as a good sleep here.

Now and then, John would hear noises. A rattle here, or maybe the clanking of metal there. The first few weeks, these noises would keep John awake at night in terror, but now, they offered the only sign of life other than the voice from the loud speaker. The voice had been there from the beginning: Herbert. Herbert brought John into this new world, and Herbert would be the one to usher him out. Ever since John awoke that first day, dry, heaving in a cold sweat, he felt a pull to the voice over the intercom.

Hello, John, try not to overexert yourself, we wouldn't want you to hurt yourself so soon.

Though the words were cold, John had an almost childlike attachment to them, or at least whoever was speaking them. At the time, it might have been because he thought it was what was going to lead him to freedom, but now it was because it was the only thing he had to remind him he wasn't dreaming. This wasn't hell, this was real, and he was alive for every minute of it.

"How was your sleep, John?"

"Good."

"Good? Care to elaborate?"

"No."

"Very monosyllabic today aren't we?"

"Shut up."

John was upset because he hadn't received his little pill in the drop box. He always found one in the metallic compartment after he slept. It was routine, and now that the routine had been broken, panic had been washing over John all morning.

"What is it, John?"

"I said shut up."

"Is it your ration, John?"

"Where is it?"

"I asked, is it your ration, John?"

"Yes, where the fuck is it?"

John was on the edge of breaking down. His whole existence was based around this simple routine, sleep, eat, pace, sleep, eat, pace, sleep. Now it was gone; leaving John with nothing.

"Oh calm down, I'm sure it'll turn up somewhere."

"I'm going to die."

"We're all going to die some day, John."