Infliction

If this is a room, it certainly has no friendliness to it
No warmth as to that in a caring, love-filled home--
The kind of home where when you walk in you instantly feel happy. You can taste the smiles.
This room does not feel warm or happy. The only expression you can feel here is pressure. Pushing, pulling, poking to last forever.
It tastes like charcoal and rotting emotions.
What's more, as the pressure continues, the room shrinks accordingly trapping one in this stink pit of sweaty tears and blood-curdling screams as cliché as it sounds.
Claustrophobia overpowers rationality and delirium washes over
Fits of excruciating pain, twisting in agony as one's blood rushes to the head then runs cold and freezes in the veins
This room was meant for more than darkness.
And now as eternity reaches its curve, the ceiling presses down like a crypted egyptian tomb ready to capture the thief.
There is just enough room for one's curled figure to take space in.
There is just enough infected air to breathe in and out, in and out, but soon it will be used up, like a tank in space with no replacement.
This body, this trapped soul curled in place in shame, fear, and mistreatment has been stolen from this world.
Why would one come to this room? What led one here? Was one conspired against and fooled into believing this darkness was something better than a murder?
Who would reel in the walls to provoke the delirius affects of claustrophobic air contaminated by years of tears from fears and rejected days coated in cold sweat from nightmares all ignored except by one's mind...
Why would someone inflict the pain of pressure in all directions upon one as the ceiling entraps them in a boxed, two-minute of suffocating strangle for some escape...
but all hope was lost early on, one tends to cease fighting when thick walls of concreted barrier enclose them in their own sickened state.
And the final taste of this room of grotesque misery is betrayal. Sour, aching taste til the final moment before the bodily functions spasm resulting in a limp figure--crushed--by all that ever inflicted pain upon it.