Blackbox

100 cubic meters.

I am enveloped in the cold, white, glistening light of the neon tubes above my head. As far as my eyes can see, there is nothing but naked walls - nothing of their texture. My arms are too short to get anything within my grasp from the chair I am seated on. The room has a sterile feel about it; nothing about it gives away any aura of contamination whatsoever. I breathe sanitized air which appears to be streaming out of sievelike vents, not certain whether I am being provided with vital oxygen or a mixture of gases of a much more fatal composition.

I breathe in, I breathe out.

These airs of breath and their smell do not allow for any sort of distinguishing characteristics to be extracted from them. No potential for association, no room for memories.

Nothing.

It seems like poison can come in much more subtle forms than generally assumed. This one is not the kind that outsources its work as a baneful middleman. No, this is the variant that aims to not even be considered lethal; this marathon messenger is intent on projecting its own death with its dying breath.

The lights start flickering.

80 cubic meters.

Bearing the potential to induce photo epilepsy, the neon tubes' stimuli drive me into moving just enough as to free myself from the shackles that once united the chair and myself. I suddenly feel liberated, free of sorrow - the toxin turns into intoxication. I start dancing to the buzzing sound of the tubes as they turn off and on, as if there was a melody I have discovered.

One, that was mine and mine alone.

I swing my spread-out arms around to let the centrifugal force breach my very core. I want more, much more of it. More - than I need.

The lights go out.

40 cubic meters.

I peek out into the darkness and smell scents, which instantaneously teleport me to places I have visited, places I wanted to see, to people I have known and those I have never gotten really acquainted to. It is the scent of sun, streaming waters, the seasons, of a shirt, of a body - the scent of reunion.

I spread my arms out curiously to feel the texture of the walls.

They feel like skin - in some spots, even singular strands of hair find their way between my fingers; some others are not smooth, but let me sense textural discrepancies between them. Palpable, more delicate, trembling ecstatically, even damp.

I put a wetted finger in my mouth and taste metal.

20 cubic meters.

The taste occupying my mouth is not even noticeable anymore shortly after the stench of rot reaches my nose. The walls start decaying rapidly inbetween my fingers and turn into pungent, acidic liquid, making my hands swell up. I wander in the dark, trying to find the center of the room and feel out the chair that once held me - squeaking, as if eaten by woodworms in a timelapse and eventually disappearing into the ground.

I wade in flesh.

Screams in the distance accelerate my aimless steps just to be sure whether they are coming from the inside or the outside. An erroneously labelled compass which, in fact, points southwards. The needle - being the only known component - does not show its colours in this murkiness.

The walls make me assume desired position.

1 cubic meter.

My sweaty extremities struggle to find room to stand up, just to come to the burdensome conclusion that I have not resisted the pressure of the walls quite enough. They continue creaking sinisterly, incessantly. The suffering voices have taken up what is left of the room I am in, chasing each other with their individually misaligned sonars.

The carcasses move closer.

The amorphous tissue forces its way into my mouth as I cry for help, pushing itself into my stomach, inhibiting gagging and breathing reflexes. The absorption immobilizes me, but makes me feel agile nonetheless; I am not part of a finite body anymore, I am... - NO - I ferociously bite into the muscle mass trying to consume me.

I see the edges of the sinister cube dematerialize.

Endless cubic meters.

The room has been broken down into molecular components. Light comes flooding in, caressing my naked body, cleansing away the effects of the blight I was exposed to. I look around hesitantly only to get blinded in the instant I open my eyes.

An ethereal voice asks: "Who are you?"

Baffled by the coherence of a question as simple as this one after the heterogenuous skirmish of screams just moments ago I reluctantly answer: "I am, I mean, me" and swallow at the tought of an annihilating response. During the continuous perfect silence I dare ask: "Is this Heaven or is this Hell?".

And everything became...