As I walked down the hallway, I wondered where I could possibly be. The walls and floor were the colour of night, and the same portrait was hung in a line across both walls. A meter of black wall glaringly stuck out in between each painting. I stopped walking to take a look at one of the portraits; it was a painting of an old man. His face was streaked with deep wrinkles, although no laugh lines showed. The man’s eyes were small, dark and sharp.
My eyes moved to his mouth and nose. A copious mountain sat between his eyes, blinding the observer of any other detail. His lips, on the other hand, were undersized, pale and colourless. Contrasting against the paintings serious and dark atmosphere, the corners of the man’s mouth was ever so slightly curved upwards, almost forming a smirk. This smirk was not the same as a child’s who is waiting for his sister to sit on a whoopee cushion, but instead one of mystery and evil. His gray, stalky hair was scarce which made him look much older than the man probably was at that point of time. His leathery skin was extremely pallid like that of a dead person, which contrasted against his dark attire and his black olive eyes.
I couldn’t help but feel cold and emotionless after analyzing the portrait so closely. Each time I swallowed, it felt as though I was swallowing sand. My esophagus burned and felt dry and hot. My head pounded as it failed to come up with any reasonable explanation of where I could be. A passionate light suddenly filled the dark hallway. My eye lids slid shut softly, and my body hit the cold, stone floor violently. I lay there limp and motionless.
My eyes fluttered open and I saw a blurry figure…