Yet another untitled story. Again, i was unable to conjure up a title suitable. You’re welcome to give it a name if you wish.
The room was poorly lit. There was a bed in the centre, resting upon it a mysterious figure with a drip connected to his wrist. A pair of slippers rested beside the bed. The paint on the walls was coming off, the room itself in a ruined condition. The windows were hitting furiously against the wall, but the door beside was bolted.
As the windows started coming to rest, the light began to flicker, and a ghastly silence filled the room.
The mysterious figure opened his eyes, his vision catching a glimpse of the tattered wall. Slowly, but steadily, with pain, he sat up on the bed. Slowly removing the drip, he moved his legs to the ground, slipping into the comfortable slippers. He coughed twice before closing the windows.
His face implied he was in his late twenties; his hair was long, shabby and overdue for a cut. Yet somehow, his beard had disappeared. His eyes, blue in colour, observed the area around him. His build was not too bulky, didn’t seem as though he could hold his own in a prolonged fight.
He quietly moved towards the door, with pain, opened it. He pulled the door and found a coat with a note inside, labeled ‘FTF’. He quickly put on the coat and peered outside into the infinite in front of him. Dark, no light as far as his vision could see, only a cold air to provide him no comfort.
He stepped outside and moved to the source of the cold blowing wind. The sound of footsteps grew, and then suddenly came to a halt, when a thump was heard. He had hit a wall.
He quickly pressured his aching body and moved 180 degrees to find his little illuminated safe house, but his eyes deceived him. There was no light, stable or flickering. Surrounded by walls on three sides, he moved forward. In hand a note saying ‘FTF’, a coat that felt somewhat funny, and slippers which felt comfortable.