There are multiple words that can describe fear. Multiple synonyms with all the same ring to it. Terror, horror, agitation, and paranoia. And not only fear, but for other variables as well: love, anger, sadness.

We have simple thoughts, we don't think in large words and grand schemes at first. We all follow a goal, and those goals all started off as just that, simple thoughts.

But what grandeur plans and answers do you chase, and why? It all started off as the most uncomplicated of dreams, but now, it's a delusion. A complex system of words, sights, and smells that you picture in your head for the near, shining future, made for you so intricately to achieve.

Just a pencil and a dream, you would say, but now it's just a machine and a delusion.

You speak in millions of words with the same meaning. Synonyms after synonyms, to make people think your goal requires complex morality as well.

Since when did you get so convoluted? Since when did you think you could cheat death and live life over and over again? What changed, dear friend?

Is this what you want? Is this what you would do for the taste of success?

There is always a devil in the details, to accomplish what we dream. Why did you ignore its presence, even though you knew it was there?

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There was a tapping sound all around you. You could barely hear talking over the obnoxious rattling that was splashing against the ground, but whoever was speaking, you couldn't understand their hushed murmurs.

You rolled to your side with a groan, a stinging pain settled as a heavy rock in your spine and legs. Your head pounded like a hammer hitting a nail over and over again. The rapid whispers became silent at your sudden agitation.

You were previously laying on your backside, against a hard, splintery surface. Your hands dipped beneath you as you slowly pulled yourself up, like a Phoenix out of its ashes.

Something dribbled down your face and hair. The clothes on you felt uncomfortably sticky and wet. Your eyes were blinded with a thick, strange substance.

At first, you thought, panicked, that it was blood, but as you wiped your eyes rapidly with dripping fingers, you realized it was not the same. It smelled sour, but not metallic.

Your ears were muffled like you dumped your head in water, your lungs were aching and your eyes stung with tears. You heaved out a few wet coughs, blinking away the blurry dizziness.

You got on your elbows and steadily lifted yourself up into a lying position. Your muscles were on fire, and you grunted at the pain. Slowly, you became aware of your surroundings.

It was no longer the cool, dim halls of the studio, but now a strange and enclosed room. The light overhead glowed an overwhelming yellow and the walls and floor around you was a splintery wood that dug into your skin.

The air felt tighter and more restricted, it smelled so strongly of chemicals that you gagged. You quickly found the culprit of the awful smell. What you thought was the subtle pitter-patters of rain at the studio, it was actually the guzzling of a thick, black substance. Ink. And an astonishing amount of it too.

It was all around you, you were even laying in a drying puddle of the stuff. You looked down at your clothes and realized you were soaked in ink. It was dripping through your hair making it an unnatural shade of black, it was on your skin, uncomfortably dripping down. It was like you took a shower in slime with your clothes on.

When you looked up, you saw a large pipe above you, still dribbling with a small amount of ink. You assumed you might have dropped from there. But from where? That was the real question that you kept asking yourself.

You dug through your memories, the freshest one was cleaning and searching that animation studio for mice. And then... there was a scream, it rang through your head, and there was ink puddling the ground, so much of it.

You were searching frantically for something, and then you were dragged into the ink. Were you dead? You drowned... Oh god, are you dead?

You shook your head and slapped your cheek, you felt the sting of your hand, rubbing the side of your face. The dead can't feel pain, right?  But how would that explain where you are now?

You slowly got to your feet and rubbed your temple. You must still be in the studio, but you never knew that they had a basement, full of ink, nonetheless. Wherever you are, this place was old.

The air felt cool and smelled like dead wood, the rotten floorboards squeaked at any sudden movement. Around you, there was a hall that led to a door, which you assumed led out of this room, more walls, and strange posters of vaguely familiar cartoon characters stained with ink.

You didn't like this at all.

Maybe there was a staircase nearby that led up? Or even better, an elevator. It was probably morning by now, and you could really use a coffee, pain medicine, and a long, long shower to get all this ink off of you. Maybe even a massage session, because goddamn did your back hurt.

Also, you are not cleaning up all that ink in the studio, or here for that matter. You swore to yourself to never do a job that you are not assigned to again.

You were definitely filing a complaint to the studio for your near-death experience, and for one of their workers, or whoever it was, for attempting murder by drowning you in ink of all things. Though it was terrifying, now you are just pissed off.

You trudged with a slight limp to the old, wooden door and grasped the dull handle. The door opened with a squeal and it led out to a narrow hallway.

Sorry for being gone for a while, I got sick (again) 🤡