Before so much as acknowledging the existence of the glass wall in front of him, he had already begun to evaluate the contents on the other side. A room, the same size and shape as his own, with identical furnishings, yet placed in mirror opposite positions. The other room’s table was in the furthest corner from his own and stood next to the bed, which held the only unique item between the two domains. A sheet, crumpled up, covering the pillow and half the bed.
He guessed the glass to be around three inches thick, and showing no sign of a beginning, looking into where the glass began lead only to more whiteness. No signs of screws, bearings, metal, or any type of material one would normally associate with holding this kind of structure in place. He turned, taking his focus away from the glass and noticing that all around him, everywhere he looked, no matter which spot he laid eyes on; this room was so clean, in place, the ideal words had escaped him but the environment was just… eerily satisfying. Yet he still had no idea as to where he was, how long he’d been there, or even why he’d awoken in the bed behind him. In fact, he couldn’t even recall how he came to be standing, investigating the glass.
Regardless, he looked around, starting with his own body. A glance down revealed that he was wearing an entirely plain white outfit consisting of: t-shirt and trousers which cut off at the ankle. His bare feet were cool, standing on pristine white tiles a foot wide, laid beautifully along the floor. Between them were horizontal and vertical lines indenting the ground at around an inch deep. The bed he woke up on behind him in the corner, white, the table next to it, also white. The walls which carried the same tiled and lined aesthetic as the floor, though in only a vertical fashion, were white. With the ceiling identically mimicking the floor tiles, of course being white.
On second viewing, the glass didn’t take up the entire wall it was embedded in, exploring further he found that there was one section of tile on either side of the glass. He slid a hand across – it was smooth, releasing a squeak as it passed seamlessly over the flush transition between tile and glass. A certain sense of relief came over him, he wasn’t deaf. Even though somehow feeling a cool flow of air enter the room, he had still heard nothing except a slight whirr inside his ears. He continued the mindless transition several more times, eliciting more of these oh-so grounding squeaks.
Then the sheet fell.
He noticed out the corner of his eye. The sheet rolled off the bed and hit the floor. No sound of any kind travelled to him, but what he witnessed showed more impact than any sheet could garner. Face fully pressed against the wall, he tapped, wondering what this actually was. Tap tap tap. Nothing. As he screwed up his fist he winced, it hurt. His hands were in physical pain and he had no idea why, but he used them. Thump thump thump. Again, nothing. Not only did he gain no kind of reaction from the sheet, but also from the wall. His offense had no result, not on the wall’s integrity, not on the sheet, not even on the sound spectrum. His taps and thumps did nothing for his cause except expose the current fragile state of his body.
One last idea circled his brain before he’d turn to contemplation for a new plan. He remembered that behind him stood a table, next to his bare bed. The table’s legs were wooden, rounded, and roughly three feet high, leading to an empty platform for any items. Items he didn’t have. Which made him wonder why there was even a table here to begin with; but before he’d even reached his second thought, his hands were wrapped around two adjacent legs and he was standing in the centre of the wall. His hands ached as he gripped this table and while holding it up he felt weaker by the second.
Taking a deep breath in, he reached back and with his entire body weight moving sideways, swung the table against the glass wall. Swing one, the table hopelessly bounced back. He gained his composure and swung again. Swing two, hitting even harder, he felt the structure deteriorating in his hands, but swung again without a pause. Swing three, the frame had become bent and was shivering between his hands. In a final effort he threw what used to be a table at the glass wall. It shattered, two legs rolled into different areas of the room, the platform split into three uneven pieces and the other two legs landed in tandem on his bare feet.
Angry, frustrated and now extremely worn-out, he evaluated the situation while the ringing in his ears calmed and he caught his breath. There was no sound produced when he made contact with the glass and looking closer, he saw not a single sign of damage to the wall. Bending down, he rubbed his feet which were now red from the weight of the table legs, but as he rubbed he felt a sharp pain in his hand. While swinging the table it had splintered and left shards of wood in his palms. Harshly pulling one out, the once white wood shard was now a dark crimson, trickling blood over his white trouser leg and the now not-so pristine white tiles. Checking again, there were still several more splinters enveloped horizontally in his right palm.
But he wasn’t done.
As he picked up the two closest table legs, he scraped them along the tile to produce sound, which he found oddly satisfying. The pain in his hands was now ten-fold to what he felt earlier, but he grit his teeth and gripped the wood, bloodying it as he did so. A last ditch effort of one swing.. two swing.. three swing.. five swing.. eight swing.. ten swings later his eyes blurred and he wondered if his legs would carry the weight of his body. Without being capable of so much as looking at the possible damage caused by his soundless swings, he fell to one knee.
Hyperventilating and losing vision fast, he placed a second knee down and rested his head on the unharmed glass. Then, as he faded through states of consciousness, he could see it. The sheet was shuffling. He woke again to see it slowly inching forward, showing nothing but wrinkles in the material. Waking another few seconds later he saw hands whiter than the tile it crawled on, helping the sheet move closer to the glass. Seeing the cloth now feet in front of him, he attempted to move his stubborn body. It refused. Left eye fading, he tried desperately to keep one eye on the sheet. Through blurred vision, black nails scratched into the ground, clawing the sheet forward, a mere arm’s reach from the glass wall. Waking one final time, body completely stiff, safe only by this unforgiving glass wall.
He saw it.
Its head pressed adamantly against the opposite side of the glass. Stringy black hair draped over its ghostly-pale, ripped skin. Only two monstrously orange eyes were visible, locked directly onto his own, watching.
/End of act I.
(Glass is an original and purely recreational story idea I thought of and decided to capitalise on. Thank you for reading and remember: if you enjoyed this post, you can follow me on Twitter @GWEWriting, share it on social media or check out some of my other articles. Thank you very much, I appreciate your support!)