Jaws of Death

Whispers in a foreign tongue waft into the dark room through a gap left unfilled for too much time beneath the door. Geneve sits upright in her bed, still draped in her aged pajamas that once fit perfectly, her hair neatly turned over in a low braided bun, but only the whites of her eyes were visible to anything lurking. The scene was entirely new to her, and yet despite it's relatively tame build, she found herself hesitant to take a breath too loud, to move an inch further than she already had after jolting from such a peaceful dream.

As her gaze flitted about, attempting to swallow any information that might be helpful in discerning her current position, the world would only grow more unfamiliar with each passing second. A clock hand waved tauntingly back and forth between 5 and 7, a glass filled with a gelatinous orange substance sat beside what seemed to be a radio on her nightstand, and hanging from the door was the same set of pajamas she was wearing, only brand new. The voices continue chattering about even as she pushes herself off the mattress with a quiet creak and takes her first steps into the room. They sound happy, even, and she nearly relaxed into her own skin before hearing a slap, then followed by laughter, and more calm words. She turns her attention back to the liquid, unwilling to dwell any further on the noisy strangers with concerning behaviors.

Her finger sinks into the jelly with a satisfying squelch, ease suggesting it could be juice gone bad, but when she begins to withdraw, the drink squeezes her fingers, and when she attempts a yank, the jelly turns concrete just before being flung into the air and crashing into the door. Geneve turns, scared, silence introducing itself with unwelcome ease before there's a click and the door knob turns. She scrambles onto the bed with just enough time to throw the blanket over her legs before a silhouette introduces itself in the doorway, figure illuminated by fluorescent light just behind them. It's difficult to tell any defining features, especially so when another figure joins them. Both have blunt bobs and wear suits that extend in sharp points at the shoulders.

"Is everything okay?" One speaks, unclear which.

Geneve is taken aback by the question spoken with what might be genuine care, but the lab-like setting suggests otherwise.

"Where am I?"

The three share a moment of silence. Then, seemingly unsure of what to say, the front one turns their head towards their partner and, despite having understood them just seconds prior, the girl on the bed is utterly lost on what they're saying only a few feet in front of her. She's already pushed herself off the bed and planted her feet on the cold stiff ground as one reaches a finger and flicks the light switch.

The darkness is dispelled, light floods the space revealing a myriad of colors where once was only black and white. Now that she can see, it looks like a regular hotel room, and the people not researchers or anything close, but decorative hotel help with confusion and amusement etched into every wrinkle of their faces.

Geneve is embarrassed and hiding her face behind the long tattered sleeves of her pajamas as they try their very best in broken English to answer her question, but the girl has grown completely deaf to reason. For the past few days, or weeks, or months -- for what feels like an eternity, her soul has been in a constant state of unrest. Each day brings her a new dilemma, a new location, new feelings, and sometimes a new body, and she might accept that it's been a really long fever dream, but why wouldn't she be at home, in bed, recovering as she experiences this?

The workers have left by the time she's caught her breath. A walk might do her mind well, she's resolved, and so she changes into whatever outfit she first lays claws on and exits the room without worrying about the lock or her belongings.

The hallways are a stark contrast to the room; black and white walls and floors with gold accents methodically placed along the way to the elevator, enhancing the atmosphere, providing a sense of wealth to all visitors. She's tempted to take a piece back to her room and return to sleep. See if it's still in her arms or if she's thrown in jail by the next morning. At the very least there would be continuity in her new world. Alas, she continues her journey into the box of mirrors that transports her to the floor below where she finds a collection of odd faces strewn about the room in a similar manner to the rich decor beforehand.

Another help is at her wait within seconds and offers her a shell pastry before accepting her indifference and prancing away. None of this wealth is familiar to her. In front of her stands a couple at a tall table, hands tied together and lips sharply curved upwards in delightful laughter that fills the room. Louder than the rest, but they are in their own world, and the hats which loosen veils surrounding their heads certainly creates a private atmosphere which announces they aren't open to other guests. A bit further ahead is a group of three all dressed in monotonous outfits of different shades of blue, and though they sprawl across the white boxy couch with lazy ease that might invite anyone into their conversation, Geneve quickly notices the spread of knives laid out before them accompanied by a tower of cards.

If time might be kind enough to allow her grace in understanding just where she's landed she would brave the chance at asking them why they've chosen such amusements, but time seems to be the very culprit of her dilemma and the chiming of the clocks surrounding the room fill her ears, reminding her that night is coming.

*Outside,* she thinks. *Outside is the real world.*

And off she is. It's a short trip to the glass doors. She's nearly breathed a sigh of relief straight onto the clear barrier as she pushes it when, to her dismay, the scenery is much much worse than the one inside. Dead trees, shriveling bushes moments away from catching fire and disappearing completely, and more darkness despite the time being 8 am. She remembered the clock swinging between 5-7 and the clocks near her announcing with high pitches that an hour had passed since. Why would it be so dark? Surely such a prestigious hotel would be surrounded by streetlights at the very least, but for miles and miles she sees nothing but death.

Desperately she is searching for any sign of life or normalcy, but before she could step further a worker is at her side, hand cupping her elbow and gently guiding her backwards as she whispers in the same language that escapes her like a playful rat toying with her sanity. Geneve, clinging to the last of her senses, looks at the worker with trembling lips. It's the same one that entered her room after she'd thrown the cup, but she doesn't remember.

"What is this? Where am I?" She asks her again.

After a sigh, the worker tilts her head, firmly grasping both of her elbows now as she shifts her tongue into more familiar territory for the other.

"I told you, you died. You live again, but you cannot leave."

Geneve is near tears. Now she remembers every other time she's spoken to this same worker and heard the same exact words. Died how? She can't remember that part, and in fact she has no memory of normalcy past what she assumed to be just weird dreams at first. Her old life is gone, if what this person says is true, eaten by this place, it feels like, and she's next to be consumed. As she looks around and catches more details than before -- the teeth-shaped trimmings on the walls accompanied by crimson red paint, the people vastly different in fashion, shapes, and purpose despite being in the same party -- she holds her breath and closes her eyes.

It's going to eat her, she knows, and if she leaves she will only experience this again, but the walls have gotten smaller. Each passing moment they do. The jaws are closing, and each time she escapes is a moment longer, allowing her, sometime in the future, to figure out an escape or die trying. She tears away her arms and runs through the doors into the dark landscape, and jolts upwards in bed.