Good Morning, Mr. Smith.

He opened his eyes with a gasp, thinking it was the same dream he had every night. But it seemed darker than usual, and stuffier, in his room.

“I need to open a window,” he thinks.

He sits up and slams his head into something, hard. He pushes his arms out and after mere inches hits a wall, it feels rough and unsanded. His legs are cramped, toes hitting something.

Thump. Thump.

The sounds are more and more muffled, further away.

The air is hot and moist; the sides of the rectangular box seem to be moving closer. He thrashes, bloodying his knuckles and bashing his forehead in an attempt to be free, to breathe, to wake up from his nightmare.

He begins to whimper, holding his breath to conserve oxygen. He continues to punch and kick, each breath more and more labored. More blood, sticky and wet, drips down his arms, his neck, his face, in to his eyes.

The tears come in earnest now. It’s the dream, only this time, he won’t wake up from it. This time, he can only fall asleep.

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