Note: This was discovered in a notebook I was going through last night. I thought it was interesting and added it here. I might develop it into something more in the future.
Windowless walls surround me, as I like upward for the only source of light in this cell. It comes from a single bulb, just bright enough to cast my shadow on the wall. The bulb had been hastily painted — red, I think, though it could be orange — it’s hard to tell from where I’m sitting. Whomever the artist, they should stick with their day job. Painting should be left to artists, not butchers. But then again, killing is a form of art. I should know.
My cell had experienced death. It clung to the walls, thick like a grime that couldn’t be scrubbed off with bleach and the hottest water. A light, copper smell perfumed my space. Someone had died here. Maybe many someones. I couldn’t tell. The air around me felt cool, dry. Wherever I was, I was underground. The walls, while natural stone, were without moisture, possibly treated with a retardant of some sort.
I counted off the paces again. My pen was roughly nine foot by nine foot. Not the presidential suite for which I was hoping, but then, I never though I would end up where I am. And where am I? Your guess is as good (or better) than mine. I don’t remember much. I was gathering intel on this poor sap I was paid to investigate. It was supposed to be simple. Follow the target, gather information and when I received the instruction, kill him. Easy money, right?