𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐍𝐈𝐀.

Habitación 477.

—

Entró en la habitación; oscura, húmeda. Se emitía un edor pútrido que subía desde el suelo, cada paso que daba se sentía pegajoso y blando como si de pisar carne cruda se tratase.

Sentía completa repugnancia por la situación en la que se encontraba. Miró a su alrededor pero no halló otra cosa que no fueran paredes tapizadas de carne, probablemente humana, órganos, tripas y tejidos. Quería escapar, pero la puerta por la que había ingreso ya había desaparecido. Completamente esfumada.

No supo cómo continuar ni qué hacer, sólo desgarró un grito desde lo más profundo de su garganta y se llevó las manos a la cabeza, enterrando sus largas y pútridas uñas en la carne de su cabellera, empezando por arrancarse una por una de las hebras de sus folículos. Los ojos se le voltearon para atrás, dándole a su rostro un aspecto completamente pálido, abandonado.

La habitación cobró vida, el corazón palpitaba con fuerza y los órganos emitían sonidos vomitivos.

Empezó a brotar sangre desde las pequeñas aberturas de las paredes y a inundarse hasta la altura de sus rodillas, pero él no era consiente de lo que transcurría en la habitación. Se hallaba completamente sumergido en su propia psicosis en donde cada segundo equivalía a desgarrarse un pedazo de piel o carne. Se había llevado las manos a los ojos, hundiendo sus largos dedos en las cuencas, extirpándose los ojos a la vez que desgarraba un segundo grito arañando su garganta por dentro; podía sentir el interior de la misma ahogarse en sus propios fluidos.

Pronto acabaría desnudo, desollado en carne viva, respirando aún con el corazón latiendo fuera de sí mismo. Sus órganos se desprendian de su corporalidad y a su vez, se fusionaban con la habitación. Se estaba haciendo parte de él, y él parte de ella. Entrelazándose como una sóla masa completamente amorfa.

Llegado el punto en que, había simplemente dejado de existir y se había transmutado en su propio dolor.

THE RØOM.

—

He entered the room; it was dark and damp. A putrid stench rose from the floor, and with every step he took, it felt sticky and soft, as if he were stepping on raw meat.

He felt complete revulsion at the situation he found himself in. He looked around but found nothing but walls covered in flesh, probably human, organs, guts, and tissue. He wanted to escape, but the door through which he had entered had disappeared. Completely vanished.

He didn't know how to continue or what to do, he just let out a scream from the depths of his throat and put his hands to his head, burying his long, putrid nails into the flesh of his hair, starting to pull out the strands from their follicles one by one. His eyes rolled back, giving his face a completely pale, abandoned look.

The room came to life, his heart pounding and his organs emitting vomit-like sounds.

Blood began to ooze from the small openings in the walls and flood up to his knees, but he was unaware of what was happening in the room. He was completely immersed in his own psychosis, where every second was equivalent to tearing off a piece of skin or flesh.

He had brought his hands to his eyes, sinking his long fingers into their sockets, gouging out his eyes while tearing out a second scream, scratching his throat from the inside; he could feel the inside of it drowning in its own fluids.

Soon he would end up naked, skinned raw, still breathing with his heart beating outside himself. His organs detached themselves from his body and, in turn, merged with the room. It was becoming part of him, and he part of it. Intertwining as a single, completely amorphous mass.

At the point where he had simply ceased to exist as such and had transmuted into his own pain.