Capítulo 1: 1: Awakening
[Dear Joel Gandel,
We at the Central Correctional Institution, after much consideration, will have to unfortunately deny your application to the position of janitor at . . .]
"God damn it!" A man shouts, crumbling the paper in his and throwing it over his shoulder to a waste basket near the door, missing it.
Taking a backward glance to see if he made it and saw the opposite, he throws his hands up and groans in despair.
This man was, of course, the aforementioned Joel Gandel. At 41 years of age, the poor man just couldn't catch a break.
To being abandoned at birth, countless fights all throughout his life, and a total of 19 breakups during his academic career, Joel was at his wits' end. This job at the prison near his apartment was supposed to be his lucky break, but alas, fate continued to not have any f*cks to give to Joel.
As Joel sat back down on his "expertly" assembled chair after his tantrum on the denial from the job position, facing his window out into his luxury view of the parking lot that transitioned into a forest, he started tearing up.
These tears then started falling not long after they had begun and quickly stained his grey t-shirt with his sorrows.
The mistakes and failures of his life swish and swash in his mind. He sits there, crying for a while.
Eventually, the sun starts lowering, and Paul decides that enough tears have been felled.
Leaning over to his bed, he grabs a box of tissues and cleans himself up.
Paul then goes to sleep the day away, unable to find the strength or energy to do much of anything else.
Too tired to take off his shorts or his shirt, he flops on the bed and wraps himself up, finding sleep easily, yet ridden with nightmares.
- unknown amount of time later -
*SWOO! WOO! WOO!. . . SWOO! WOO! WOO!. . .*
Startled awake by loud sirens, Joel found himself on a bare cot. 'Whha the fuck?' He thinks springing up to his feet, panic growing inside himself, now noticing that he was in fact not in his room.
The walls were completely white, shiny even; like that of concrete or metal, with visible squares of the material making up the box he found himself in.
While Paul's eyes couldn't identify where the sound was coming from, they did find a pair large, imposing doors on the left wall of where he stood.
Deciding that covering his ears wouldn't help him in the long run, he goes to take a step forward when a buzzing feeling forms on the back of his head.
"Huh?" Paul voices, mid step. With his foot still, he determined that, indeed, that this pressure came as soon as he lifted his foot and was so far, constant to his senses.
Now intrigued and wanting to distract himself from the situation, he puts his foot back. As soon as he does, the pressure stops.
Then, with measured movement, he moves his foot back forward. Again, the pressure comes again. "Hmm . . ."
As he continues to put his foot down, he anticipates the pressure to build or even sharply rise due to it. But it stays the same, much to Paul's train of thought.
'Oh. . . that's oddly disappointing.' No sooner as this notion comes into his mind, he notices something. 'The sirens have stopped.'
Now remembering that he was essentially in an unknown place that was probably in a state of emergency, if those alarms were anything to indicate, he briskly walks up to the doors and then notices something, somethings that should have been glaringly obvious to Paul earlier.
There was no knob to turn, no bar to push, no indication that it could be open from inside the cell he found himself in.
Now, that annoying feeling of anxiety was back in his gut. Pushing on it, Pual feels the dense pair doors not giving even a millimeter of give. After a couple of panicked shoves at the black surface of the doors, he goes to the edges of the doors to see if there were crevices to peak through.
Nothing.
Getting on his knees and hands, he tries to see if there is a gap under them.
Still nothing.
With his options nill at that point, he gets up and goes to pound at one of the doors in desperation. Then, as his fist is centimeters from the door, he hears muffled movement from just beyond the doors.
Drawing his hand back to his side, Paul finds himself at an impasse. 'Should I stay silent. Or ask for help? I mean, I don't even know what's happening or heck what happened to me!'
But as Paul contemplates this, the choice is pulled out of his hand as from the door he hears something.
The sounds of gears inside the door move. Gears that sound like they haven't moved in a very long time.
*click*
This single sound is followed by another click, not even a second later. Then more clicks. And then more.
As Paul counts these clicks reaching triple digits in a matter of seconds, another feeling comes to him, overshadowing his fears and anxieties.
That of anticipation, which strikes Paul as odd. 'Shouldn't I be scared shitless right now? . . . How am I this calm?'
*Clunk*
As the doors start opening, Paul finds that buzzing pressure within his mind slowly rises in intensity. As the doors slowly open, a grunt comes from the other side, the sound of someone exerting force on the doors.
Then the doors open much faster, loudly banging on the walls of the cell Paul is in, and they stay there, like the force on them was so strong it embedded them into the walls.
The reverberation of the resulting collision assaulting Paul's ears, making him close his eyes and cover his ears with his hands in reflex of the sensory overload.
"Ow! What th-" Paul is interrupted in his protest by the barrel of a gun, a glock by the looks of it, suddenly on his temple.
Straining to not move in panic, Paul opens his eyes to take a look, immediately seeing the gloved fingers on a gun pointing at him.
Then, from the firearm to the arm, he moves his sights along to the person the arm is connected to, Paul's eyes finally focus on the person who had him at gun point.
The guy looked around 20-25, pretty young to Paul's untrained eyes.
He was decked out in body armor, not dissimilar to that of what he remembers swat individuals would wear in those tv shows and movies, his head covered in a similar styled helmet, the glass cover reflecting Paul's sweaty face back at him for him to see.
"Yo bro. How'st bout it's been Sam?"
". . . Huh?"
PENSAMENTOS DOS CRIADORES 
GoldenMark
GoldenMark Ooga Booga, I write whatever.
If it turns into a concise story, yay.
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