You open the sooty, gray door and walk into the room, making sure to leave the doorway behind you wide open. It is dank and reeks of mildew in here. There is a single bulb that hangs from the ceiling, but it is of a very low wattage.
The owners of this room must be cheap, you think.
The farther you creep into the room, the more your eyes can make out. Shelves line the walls, and scattered litter and grime masks the floor. The ceiling is covered with water.
When you reach the back of the room, you put your hand to the wall, feeling the slowly degrading brick against your palm, on the webbings between your fingers. You feel your legs become soft, and you realize that you are falling, slowly, slowly, slowest. Your knees touch the floor. Your forehead rests against the wall.
At the back of the room, you push yourself off of the brick and turn around, sitting on the gritty floor, your legs spread out in front of yourself. At the back of the room, you stare at the open doorway. You just sit there, at the back of the room, you sit there until your legs become numb. You sit there forever. And you never die.
At the back of the room, you stare at the door you left hanging open, and eventually, the low watt bulb’s filament burns out. Now, at the back of the room, you are mostly in the dark, except for the minimal amount of silver light that leaks through the doorway.
At the back of the room, you sit on the floor forever, and, when your brain permits, you sleep, restlessly.