You wake up in the same room. Water drips nearby. You cannot tell if it drips from the ceiling, from a faucet, from a pipe. You turn your head to listen, to look, but something still covers your face. You try to move, but your wrists remain bound above your head; your legs spread, your ankles tethered to something. You feel a mattress beneath you: sheets, pillow, and blanket. The room feels cool, smells damp like a basement. The walls feel close like a cell.
CLINK The sound startles you. You have wanted and dreaded interaction, hoping for answers, fearing them. A door opens and slams shut. Your breath is fast, shallow, quiet. You strain to listen. Your thighs squeeze in a vain attempt to close your legs. Your wrists pull against the rope that keeps your arms up, your torso exposed. Beneath the fabric that covers your face, your wide eyes stare, unblinking. Your heart thuds, pumps power to muscles that cannot move.