Status: Stories do not intertwine, will go on forever.
Unfortunate Souls
The Last Supper
She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.
The room she had left had been as bleak as the ones previous, but thankfully, this new room offered change.
She was still alone, but this time, the walls were blue. A large, wooden table took up the majority of the space and one chair sat at the head. A glass filed to the brim with some unknown liquid and a plate hidden under a mountain of food stared at her, and she when she noted the lack of another door or window, she stepped back, desperately reaching for the door handle.
As expected, it was locked.
The game had changed. She hasn't seen food since Room 8, and there had always been instructions. She should have known, with the challenges becoming less thinking and more muscle memory, but she hasn't looked into it. The whole time, she had been ordered to use her brain, and then when it probably counted most, she had shut herself down.
She wouldn't make the same mistake twice. The only way in or out was the door at her back, and that unnerved her. Acting quickly, she scraped the chair across the floor, so that she could face the door head on.
She placed her food and drink in front of her, only hesitating a moment before her resolve broke. She ate like a starving man, because except for the anatomy bit, she was.
Halfway through her meal, she realized that as the food disappeared from the plate, a picture began to form.
So that was it. Eat all the food, get the next clue.
But she recognized this one. Growing up in the church, it's impossible not to. Growing up, she had had nightmares about the image. She hasn't eaten a full mask for days because of it.
Panicked, she dumped the rest of the food on the floor. Seeing the full design design made her heart skip, and she flung they plate like a frisbee. It sailed through the air and crashed against the wall, where it rained down in shards.
She fell to her knees, landing in the pile of discarded food. She ached all over, and her eyelids were heavy.
How poetic, she manned to think. Dying, in my own last supper.
The room she had left had been as bleak as the ones previous, but thankfully, this new room offered change.
She was still alone, but this time, the walls were blue. A large, wooden table took up the majority of the space and one chair sat at the head. A glass filed to the brim with some unknown liquid and a plate hidden under a mountain of food stared at her, and she when she noted the lack of another door or window, she stepped back, desperately reaching for the door handle.
As expected, it was locked.
The game had changed. She hasn't seen food since Room 8, and there had always been instructions. She should have known, with the challenges becoming less thinking and more muscle memory, but she hasn't looked into it. The whole time, she had been ordered to use her brain, and then when it probably counted most, she had shut herself down.
She wouldn't make the same mistake twice. The only way in or out was the door at her back, and that unnerved her. Acting quickly, she scraped the chair across the floor, so that she could face the door head on.
She placed her food and drink in front of her, only hesitating a moment before her resolve broke. She ate like a starving man, because except for the anatomy bit, she was.
Halfway through her meal, she realized that as the food disappeared from the plate, a picture began to form.
So that was it. Eat all the food, get the next clue.
But she recognized this one. Growing up in the church, it's impossible not to. Growing up, she had had nightmares about the image. She hasn't eaten a full mask for days because of it.
Panicked, she dumped the rest of the food on the floor. Seeing the full design design made her heart skip, and she flung they plate like a frisbee. It sailed through the air and crashed against the wall, where it rained down in shards.
She fell to her knees, landing in the pile of discarded food. She ached all over, and her eyelids were heavy.
How poetic, she manned to think. Dying, in my own last supper.
♠ ♠ ♠
I think my teacher is getting concerned.