The walls and floor bled.

Deep red planks of wood surrounded Yeung-Sung. He turned away towards the one large window, spanning the whole wall. It was framed by crystals which refracted -somehow- blues. He spun from edge to edge and saw that the room widened at the entrance, narrowing at the end. Walking up, he put his face against the screen window, looking below. Seeing that the end of his apartment jutted out from the building like an enclosed balcony, he felt like the trapezoidal platform encroached onto him; his very own chopping block.

This impending sense of doom did not serve well to make Yeung-Sung feel welcome. Relishing the cold glass on his skin, fragments of his dream drifted like leaves into his consciousness.

“What the fuck,” he asked out loud, “is this place?”

To his right, he spotted a work desk. On it, among other things, was a glass jug sleeping by the moonlight. He rushed towards it and toasted to the stars, before drinking it in its entirety. Naturally, it was cold and filling. Naturally, he drenched half of his white shirt as he was soaking it up. Yeung-Sung reminded himself that he was not a tree.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He dropped the jug, letting it roll up carelessly toward a table leg. Yeung-Sung unwrapped himself out of his shirt, pulling it off with both hands. Beside the desk and opposite the sweaty bed was a wardrobe. He felt unnerved by it. Stepping up to its looming form, Yeung-Sung saw that it was a single slab of marbled, sanguine wood. Despite his dendrological knowledge, he had the strangest feeling that it was actually a massive lap of beef. He stretched out to touch it and thankfully, his hand did not sink in.

This place has already soured my mind.

Inside were rows of hanging lavender shirts and tops, with pale purple jeans and lilac chinos folded at the bottom. He sighed, Of course, and replaced his shirt and decided to, miserably, change his trousers too. As he was pulling down on its waist however, the phone he was given earlier squirmed out of his pocket. It landed face up, and curiously faced Yeung-Sung perfectly. The lock screen glowed, showing 22:24.

He almost went to open it. He even absentmindedly thought about using that app; ‘Airgead’. Yet he caught himself mid-lean and retreated, flinging his old jeans to a corner and adopted the purple palette that was presented. Leaving everything open as it was, the jug on the floor, even ruffling the bed a little more, he stepped out of that nightmarish room with one plan.

I’m getting out of here.