Snow Villiers wakes up half-blind and disoriented, alone in a chamber of solid white.
The first thing he can feel, as he’s pulled back into awareness from the cloying grip of unconsciousness, is an almost painful chill on his bare body--he lies naked on a cold table, the metal unforgiving to his spine and hips, his limbs splayed wide and held there by coarse leather straps that chafe and rub harshly against his slender ankles and wrists. His eyes blearily blink open, just to immediately squeeze shut again when he’s faced with the bright fluorescent lights burning down overhead; they hurt to look at, searing his retinas and scalding him on the inside, until he turns his head to the side as much as the straps pulling his body taut will allow.
The room he’s held captive in is completely bare--with short white walls that look far too close and a white ceiling, a white tile floor covered in faint, splotchy stains of pink and yellow tint. To his left is a stainless steel table, bearing two rows of objects that Snow can barely make out from where he’s at: on the table there’s a stack of short metal rods in various thicknesses, a few syringes and small vials of fluid, and three shiny, pink phallic-like objects made of smooth plastic that look as big as his arm. The rest of the items piled onto the table he can’t make out from where he’s tied down, too obscured to be seen clearly, but just what he can see is enough to have dread coiling up cold in his gut.
Snow swallows down the rising panic and tells himself to be strong. He tears his gaze away from the table, and looks down at himself instead.
It’s strange seeing himself in such a clinical setting--seeing this body that he knows so intimately stretched out, tied up, left entirely vulnerable--but what makes his mouth go dry, what has him choking on air, is what he doesn’t know, what is new. There’s a thin plastic tube fed into the tip of his flaccid penis, and he imagines he can feel the end of it, fluttering against the inside of his belly when he breathes; there’s writing over the toned mounds of his pectorals, dotted lines around his nipples and tiny little x’s across the pebbled, darker skin of his areola.
First Injection Here
Fourth Injection Here
And it’s only when Snow looks up, tilting his head back as far as it will go and straining the muscles in his neck, that he can see a flash of silver above him. He squints at the gleam of metal, trying to make out what exactly it is: it’s some kind of machinery arm, he thinks, a curved, slender steel rod with some kind of lead pad attached to the end. He can’t see what the arm connects to, but--especially considering the state of the rest of his surroundings--Snow cannot imagine it’s anything but horrible.
“...Hello?” he tries, calling out into the hopeless, endless white; and it’s only the hoarse echo of his own voice that answers.
No doors open, no sound comes into the room to spare him from the silence.
Snow has no idea how long he lays in the blank room--alone, isolated, struggling against the leather straps that hold him fast and yelling for someone, anyone--without even a clock to watch. It feels like a full day has passed before the panic and fear finally fades enough for the exhaustion, the fatigue, to creep in; and when it does it settles heavy, an inescapable iron over his bones.
He dozes in short, fitful bursts, sleeping in discomfort to combat his boredom until the hunger pangs wake him; and then it’s back to staring, from the ceiling to the walls, yelling into the unanswering void.
He’s eventually thankful for the catheter--at least he’s spared the humiliation of pissing himself, even though there’s no one around to see. It’s not much of a mercy, considering that he’s still bound, still starved, still being driven insane from the lack of stimuli and interaction; but it’s something.
Right now, it’s all he has.
It will have to be enough.