Trapped in a room where darkness breathes and silence lingers, the narrator wrestles with an unseen presence—a force that demands acknowledgment, a name, a place in reality. But denial is a form of defiance, and in the face of looming dread, the room itself becomes something more than just a prison. It becomes a sanctuary. A place of solitude. A battle between what is known and what refuses to be named.
What of the room? I find myself ensnared within its confines, swallowed whole by a darkness so complete it devours the edges of my vision. It is not merely a void—it breathes, festers, seeps into my skin. The air is thick with something unclean, something that does not belong. I cannot see it, yet I know it’s there.
It lingers.
A silent observer, crouched just beyond the reach of my senses. Waiting. Time stretches thin, taut as a wire, vibrating with anticipation. I curl inward, small, trembling, as if I could will myself into nothingness. But it remains. Watching. Looming.
They say I must acknowledge it. Give it a name. Let it take shape.
I refuse.
This is not my fault. It never was.
The silence presses in, heavy, relentless. But I am not alone—not entirely. The room itself breathes with me, cradles me, shelters me. It does not demand, does not whisper, does not wait.
It is mine. My sanctuary.
Prompt: You awaken in a pitch-black room, aware of something watching. It doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, but you feel it—waiting. Do you acknowledge it, or do you fight to keep it nameless? Write about the tension of confronting the unknown, where fear and comfort intertwine.
