Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water is an alarm clock. Why is there water dripping inside? I open my eyes to a room unfamiliar to me. Unkempt metal walls held together by thick rivets and spaced by large sheets of... glass? Behind the glass there is only water as far as I can tell. So is it glass at all? No. It's a thick plastic. Glass would shatter, right? Not the point.
There's a metal hatch on the other side of the room. It does not open. Opposite the metal hatch is the drip. Drip. Drip. It's in perfect time. Nature's metronome condensed and controlled by faulty and failing construction. But a drip means a leak, and a leak, underwater, means danger. But the drip is slow, and I hope it means I'm safe.
How do I get out?
Do I get out at all?
Am I meant to be here?
Why?
It turns out I deserved it.
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