Ryan stares blankly at his reflection in the mirror.
What is happening? How did he end up here?
The face gazing back at him is pale, almost grey under the harsh fluorescent lighting; his hair wild and falling into his eyes. He tears his eyes away and looks back up at the clock – its figures poised, ready for the countdown.
‘Hello?’ he shouts up to the ceiling. ‘Can anyone hear me?’
Panic is stirring in his chest, his stomach churning. His eyes dart around the room, from the boxes in the corners, back to the timer hanging above the mirror, and finally to the door. It’s just a normal door – wood and a latch. Even if it’s locked, he can break through it, he’s sure. He darts towards it, holding his breath, but is pulled violently back by the chain around his ankle.
He screams loudly, frustration and anger bellowing out of him. ‘Somebody help me! What the fuck is going on?’
His vision is wavering, the small room rocking from side to side, his hands clammy, sweat seeping through his T-shirt. He staggers backwards, collapsing against the wall and sliding to the floor. He presses his forehead against his knees and tries to draw in deep breaths, but instead the oxygen comes in jagged snatches and his heart races faster.
Take yourself out of this room. Think. You somehow ended up here. What’s the last thing you remember? Think.
He had been at home. In front of his computer. Waiting for his mates to message with plans for that evening. The screen had blurred before his eyes, the words morphing into each other. He leaned backwards in his chair, his neck cracking as he rolled it in a circle, closing his eyes for a moment.
‘Ryan!’ His mum’s voice echoed up the stairs, shrill, like a bird, the sound going straight through him.
‘What?’ he called back, trying to keep the tinge of annoyance out of his voice. No matter what she said or did, and no matter how much she bent to accommodate him, just the sound of her calling his name sent a flurry of frustration through him. He loved her, but her love was claustrophobic.
He pulled open the drawer of his desk and Fiona’s photograph peered back up at him. He kept her hidden. His mum would just ask questions if she saw. But the photo was pocked with holes from when it had been on the wall, marked from every time he had decided to take her down and then put her back up. Sometimes it was the sight of her that was too much: her smiling face, almost cruel, as if she was laughing at him.
‘Ryan?’
‘Yes!’ he yelled, no longer showing restraint.
His mum’s face appeared through a small opening in the door, her nose scrunched up in disapproval as her eyes roamed over the bedsheets tangled at the foot of the bed; the clothes he was wearing yesterday in a pile on the floor.
‘There’s no need to shout, love,’ she said, a nervous smile twitching across her mouth. ‘Did you want a sandwich? You should eat something.’
‘I’m not really hungry, Mum.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Mm-hmm,’ he nodded, not looking at her.
‘Okay.’ She stepped backwards, almost disappearing from sight, but then paused. ‘Are you … are you going out tonight?’
‘In a bit,’ he nodded.
‘Okay, love … Do you fancy coming to church with me tomorrow?’
He twisted his mouth, wanting to turn her down, but he couldn’t do it. It meant so much to her. ‘Sounds good … depending on how late I’m back tonight.’
‘Perfect,’ she said with a smile before stepping out into the hall and closing the door.
He sighed again, lifting a hand to rub his forehead. He never meant to be cruel to his mum. But all he felt when she was around was strain. Their once-close relationship bending under the weight of too much pressure, too much misplaced hope, too much proximity. Just too much … everything. They were a branch, ready to snap.
His phone vibrated. It was the group chat:
Pub?
Yep – let’s get on it.
See you there.
‘Finally,’ he said, standing up and grabbing his keys and phone from his bed.
Be there in ten.
Leaving the house, he walked down the alley at the end of the street to get to the corner shop on Bridge Road. He went into the shop, chatted to Dave for a few minutes before buying his cigarettes and then went back to the alley to cut across to Woodgate Road and the pub …
He frowns. Did he get to the pub? Yes … he did. He can picture the rowdy shouts of his friends as he walked through the doors, he can feel the wooden bar beneath his fingertips, tacky with old beer and heat. He can hear the landlord, his familiar voice asking if he wanted another. And there was a couple sitting two stools down, a man and woman, laughing together at something on her phone.
But then everything goes dark – until he woke up here.
Now, all he can do is wait. Wait for someone to come into the room, wait for the countdown to begin.
But no – that isn’t true. He doesn’t just have to wait.
The boxes.
They must be here for a reason.
He inches closer to the nearest box, his hand reaching out before him, his fingers trembling. The chain around his ankle pulls tight, but he can just reach it. He turns quickly to look over his shoulder at the timer. But it is still frozen. He looks over to the door, his pulse thrumming in his temples, but nobody is there. No one is coming.
He narrows his eyes as something in the corner above the door catches his eye. How did he not notice that before?
A camera. The light glowing red.
A camera. The boxes. A countdown.
He knows where he is.
This is the Confession Room.