Swoosh. Flicker. Scooch. Swish. Whisper. Scrape

Swoosh

The suffocating cloth is ripped away from my face in heated passion. My eyes open, furiously adjusting to the seemingly endless sea of darkness that surrounds me. To no avail, I surrender my eyesight while I try and use my sense of touch to visual the area around me, but that also is something I am forced to surrender as my body is completely paralyzed, sans my head. Neither my sense of smell or sound work, as the room lay completely and utterly odorless and stiller than an oak tree. My courge quickly deteriorated the longer I sit there, helpless.

Flicker

My eyes closed immediately at the burning bright lights that switched on almost instantaneously. Trying to open my eyes back almost as quickly seemed damn near impossible, as even the slightest gaze seemed to burn my retinas. Taking baby steps, I stretched apart my eyelids by mere millimeters. After several grueling minutes, my eyes had finally grew accustomed to the glare and my vision balanced itself out. Making out all the details in the room, I noticed there were none. It was empty, sans two lights that sit parallel each other on opposite spectrums of the room, as one oak pedastal sat in between the two.

Scooch

Within mere seconds, the chair I was seated upon flung forward neatly before the pedastals. My eyes slowly crept upon the top of the furnished oak, and I noticed that neatly there was a hard bound book. No title or design graced its presense on it, however, as well as an author's name. The thing taunted me as I sat there chained though, it's looming presense begged me to open it, but my hands could not be lifted from the arm rests of this accursed chair.

Swish

Wind seemingly conjured out of nothing as it flew in front of me directly at the book, causing it to finally open. Page after page flipped past in rapid succession, but as I tried to read what were on the pieces of white I soon came to the realization that nothing was written. The plainly covered, blank titled hard bound book contained no words, no sentences, no page numbers, nothing. And just then, the wind stopped as quickly as it had started, stuck on a sole blank page smack dab in the middle of the entire book.

Whisper

Gentle words began muttering around my head, their volume in numbers causing their lowered volume voices to heighten, giving me severe anxiety. Every single voice sounded exactly the same, and they sounded like they were muttering the same thing, but I soon took notice that every single word uttered from each voice was completely different. The more and more I focused on the meaning to their blabber, the more and more my heart fluttered with evergrowing nolstagia. 

Scrape

Very faint scraping soon took the main stage of my attention, as I looked straight down at that blank page, and saw it filling with words of varying degree. No pencil lay anywhere in sight, and yet something was still writing. Soon, both the scraping of the invisible pencil and the various voices sang in harmony, and my mind became clear. The pencil was writing down what the voice was dictating, and then it would move onto the next voice as the previous faded away into nonexistence. I try to read what is being written, but it soons become clear that what is written left incomplete, as the conjured wind swings back to flip to a fresh new page. My mind tries to decipher what little clues are given from the half done paragraphs and sentences, nolstagia fluttering like a soaring eagle. After several pages of written down words, after hearing the same voice over and over, the puzzles finally click into place. Each voice is my own, and each word is my own. I soon start reading along to each incomplete work in perfect sync, and soon I find myself at the very last page of the book. And as the final whisper, and the final word, are said and written...

Scooch. Flicker. Swoosh.

The setting is reset, only to restart once more.

Swoosh. Flicker. Scooch. Swish. Whisper. Scrape

Swoosh. Flicker. Scooch. Swish. Whisper. Scrape.

Swoosh. Flicker. Scooch. Swish. Whisper. Scrape.

The pure monotony petrifies and pierces my very soul, as I sit there, seemingly helpless to my prediciment. Each swoosh, along with each flicker and scooch and swish and whisper and scrape peck at me like a insistent vulture. And eventually I have enough.

STOP! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

All sounds die down and my chains relenquish control of my limp body. I stretch my arms, crack my fingers, pick up the now visible pencil, and I begin to write in the artly covered, colorfully titled hard bound book, starting from the first page.