A quick short fix of a story. It's a rough draft, don't expect the grammar to be perfect. It's a narrative anyway, no real dialogue. It's not going to be disgusting so don't come in here thinking that way. Thriller? Maybe.
Ahem!
He awoken from his sleep. It was dark out; a mysterious, eerie gloom pervaded through the darkness. He found himself on top of a table, strapped down with duct tape. Thoughts of torture, disfigurement, mutilation, and sheer doom floated through his mind, while on the exterior, he was crying and sweating. As suddenly as he had awakened, a shadowy figure entered the room, took a scalpel from a desk drawer and dropped it next to him.
His name is Dexter. His location? At the moment, unknown. The scalpel looked rather dull, and as if it were used in many operations. For people who met a grisly end? To preform primitive and amateur surgery on unsuspecting victims? Dexter couldn't bother to figure it out when he was in a poor situation like this. His hand was only a mere four centimeters short of reaching the scalpel, but alas, it is four centimeters short. Realizing there was no hope for him, he began to cry, and think back to his childhood.
He was rudely interrupted by a voice echoing from the back of the room. The voice calmed him down, for it had a feminine, motherly like quality to its tone. Dexter relaxed, and listened as it told him what to do. He managed to wiggle his left wrist free of the duct tape, and he grabbed the scalpel. At last, Dexter had some hope! He clenched the scalpel awkwardly, and he cut through the duct tape. Starting with his right wrist, then his left ankle, and finally his right ankle.
Dexter was free, but he was surely not out in the clear yet. Now that he was off the table, he was free to examine the room more closely. The walls were white, plain, dull, and reminded him of an asylum. After perusing the room for a while, he noticed that there was a barely perceptible glint underneath the desk where the scalpel was pulled from. Dexter walked over, stumbling as he moved. He prostrated himself to the floor, and he searched for the glint which he saw. After about what it seemed like five minutes, Dexter found the source of the glint. It was a key! A coincidence? Cliche? Yes, but I need to continue the story, so yes, it was a key.
Dexter took the key, stumbled over to the door, and awkwardly fumbled with it. It wouldn't fit! Not disheartened, he still continued to fumble with the key. Eventually, it fell into place within the slot. The door opened, revealing a hallway with no distinguishable end on either side. When Dexter thought the room liked like one that you might find in an asylum, he was quite correct, morbidly correct. It turns out, in an odd twist of fate, that he was in fact, in an asylum. Dexter now knew the severity of his situation.
To be continued when I ass myself to write more...
Thoughts, comments?
Here I am, bored with everything.
