My Notes

I immediately panicked. I have never in this situation before, yet here I am. Oh, my head ached as if I banged it.

I peered at the note. This is my hand writing. Who else could have written it. In the corner, there was a fingerprint made of blood. It said get out quickly. I searched the room for doors and windows, but all I found was a pencil, paper, and torn paper, which resembles the one I was holding.

Should I scream? Beg for help? That will get me no where. I began feeling around in the dark before stumbling on a latch. I, of course, pulled it. As I did so, i feo the warm light hit my skin. I thought for a second I was free until a hand clasped on my shoulder.

“London,” The old crooked voice spoke, “Party’s not over.” My head was pushed against the latch, closing the door to my freedom. “Please.” I winced.

“London, you know how this ends. With you and a note. Over and over again until you finally give up.” He croaked. My head aches and I fell to the floor. I could feel the warm oozing blood leak onto my forehead.

The old man walked back to the chair I just noticed. Pushed in the darkest corner. “Go on,” He groaned. “Write you note.”

I breathed out and picked up the pencil. I began to write the note that I hope will save my life next time I wake up.

I slid into another slumber before hearing the old man speak again. “Hopefully this time, the loop ends.”

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