The room is an auditorium. Inside your prison are red fabric seats and rich ruby curtains framed by grey textured walls. You could walk circles inside the vast space and still blend in with the overflowing crowd that has packed themselves before the stage like a can of silver sardines. You could weave your presence in between every standing individual, you becoming a burgundy streamer creating an imaginary basket and never create a conjoining path with him.

And yet, from your carmine cage between two armrest in the back left of the room, you still choke on his presence from the front row. The knowledge of his presence tastes like car emission and appears as smoke. The auditorium doors are shut, and staying in this room is certain suicide. His grey fog follows you everywhere, even if he's not there. His shadow strangles you in the open fields of lavender, and in the hours before midnight hidden under bedsheets in a locked bedroom. The smoke demands to be tasted and shoves it's existence down your throat until you wonder how much longer you have before you too lose the ability to speak and just bleed red velvet.