He awoke to find himself in a space. He didn’t know where. All he had on were pants and his shoes. It was cold. It was dark.
He decided to try and warm himself by “measuring” his room. He found a corner. But when his hand touched the wall, he shivered. There was something on the wall. He put his nose as close as he dared, but he still couldn’t quite make it out. It was glossy, yet felt like paper. Running his hand down the wall to the floor, he found that whatever was on the wall was encroaching on the floor. This disturbed him even more, but he wasn’t quite sure why.
He sank to the floor and waited.
He knew when the sun had risen. Not by instinct, but by the myriad of tiny pinholes of light that permeated his room.
And with the light came horror. Now he understood why the walls had so disturbed him.
Every inch of space was covered with polaroids. And on each polaroid was a post-it note. And each note told the grisly details of each and every murder depicted.
He was in a room of death.