A young woman, seemingly only twenty, lays on the dirty concrete floor, weeping. Each teardrop hits the ground, creating a tiny speck of mud where it chooses to rest. The once radiant woman is now coated in a layer of dust, as though her previously colorful existence has faded. How did she get here? A roar, not unlike that of a vicious animal, comes from her stomach. She is surrounded by decaying, rusty pipes; some are dripping a faintly blood-colored substance that was supposedly once clear. Drip, drop, drip, drop. The sound is Hell. Besides the soft whimpers coming from the woman, and her somewhat steady breaths, the droplets are the only sound that echoes through the tense air. The woman shivers. One would assume the shivers came from laying on the ice cold floor, however the paranoia outshone the cold by far, causing them. The woman’s heart had sped up so much she wondered how it hadn’t exploded already. Her throat was as dry as a desert and felt as though it was closing up like a healing wound. Then, a new sound cut through the emptiness. The room was dimly lit by a single flickering light bulb, and after what seemed like a lifetime of nothingness, a sudden click signaled complete darkness as the light bulb went out. Almost every inch of the room was covered in a blanket of pure black. Only a single speck of light dared to disturb this perfect darkness. A small red dot flashing on and off. Where was it coming from?  Would anyone come to replace the light bulb? Was anyone even here? Was she alone? Would she die here? Infinite thoughts buzzed through the woman’s head like a swarm of angry bees. Without the disturbing visuals of the room to focus on, she noticed the stale smell of the place for the first time. It smelt like it had been vacant for ages, no one bothering to clean it or really use it for anything. It reminded the woman of the rarely used spare bedroom every grandparent seems to have in their home. The noises of this strange place seemed to get louder by the second as well. The rhythmic dripping continued like the ticking of a clock. It counted the hours, minutes, seconds until something might happen. There is no torture worse than this endless abyss of loneliness. The woman, now too worn out to care, made one last attempt to scream which came out as a whine before delicately resting her head and giving up. Then, a bright white light filled the room. “Cut!” The blinking red light of a camera that signaled it was recording stopped, and the hum of voices flooded the set. The woman got up, dusted herself off, and was rushed to have her makeup touched up for the next scene.