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sensitIV
[ You spill out of the elevator into the Bloody Room— the elevator is gone when you look back.
How . . . how appropriately named. It looks like it used to be someone's bedroom - a child's, perhaps, from how the walls have bright colors and animal print, although the colors have long since faded and the animal print is peeling. Now it looks creepy with all of the blood - and there is a lot. Did a murder happen here? Did two? Three? No matter the number, it seems like it's not enough to explain the numerous bloody handprints that claw up all four walls, reaching even the ceiling, and after a certain point below it seems like the whole room was flooded with blood, matching mid-waist on average. That's really concerning!
Aside from . . . all the blood, there is a twin sized bed - the mystery, really, is how this bed ended up not being so bloody; although there are stains against the wood that indicate handprints, the sheets themselves are mostly clean and white except for one adult-sized handprint on the corner. Across it, there is a bureau with an array of what look like happy family photos—except they become less and less happy as time goes on.
You can't help looking at the photos, and feel a tightening in your chest and a flood of emotions overwhelms you briefly-- ugly pathos, a sorrow so deep it lances you straight to your core and despair drains out. The unfairness of the world, the world that heaps yet more trauma upon trauma, that ladles it out to everyone: no matter how undeserving, how young. You would take them away, before it can do any worse. If it's in your hands, it won't even hurt— none of these feelings are yours. They exist like reading a letter, a record of someone else's thoughts, someone else's life tucked away inside an envelope. You could open it again, read it until you could imagine it real, but why would you want to? But if you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, that envelope will open and it will be read again, loud enough to drown you out.
There is an empty frame on the bureau, no photograph yet inside.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (make someone view a prior trauma in your cursed photo frame) as well as the item that you've been given (a golden frame). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]
How . . . how appropriately named. It looks like it used to be someone's bedroom - a child's, perhaps, from how the walls have bright colors and animal print, although the colors have long since faded and the animal print is peeling. Now it looks creepy with all of the blood - and there is a lot. Did a murder happen here? Did two? Three? No matter the number, it seems like it's not enough to explain the numerous bloody handprints that claw up all four walls, reaching even the ceiling, and after a certain point below it seems like the whole room was flooded with blood, matching mid-waist on average. That's really concerning!
Aside from . . . all the blood, there is a twin sized bed - the mystery, really, is how this bed ended up not being so bloody; although there are stains against the wood that indicate handprints, the sheets themselves are mostly clean and white except for one adult-sized handprint on the corner. Across it, there is a bureau with an array of what look like happy family photos—except they become less and less happy as time goes on.
You can't help looking at the photos, and feel a tightening in your chest and a flood of emotions overwhelms you briefly-- ugly pathos, a sorrow so deep it lances you straight to your core and despair drains out. The unfairness of the world, the world that heaps yet more trauma upon trauma, that ladles it out to everyone: no matter how undeserving, how young. You would take them away, before it can do any worse. If it's in your hands, it won't even hurt— none of these feelings are yours. They exist like reading a letter, a record of someone else's thoughts, someone else's life tucked away inside an envelope. You could open it again, read it until you could imagine it real, but why would you want to? But if you lose your sanity, or are damaged too far, that envelope will open and it will be read again, loud enough to drown you out.
There is an empty frame on the bureau, no photograph yet inside.
A readout on your phone tells you the rules and displays the sanity goal (explore rooms) and your traitor goal (make someone view a prior trauma in your cursed photo frame) as well as the item that you've been given (a golden frame). It looks like nothing is stopping you from committing the traitor goal even while you're sane, if you wish to.
There is one exit: South. ]