"It's done." The words came from my mouth but not my mind. As I finally began to regain control of my own thoughts long enough to wonder why I had said what I said, a voice came from nowhere, and everywhere, and boomed into the white room, "That is not what we asked you to write."
I shook my head, fighting to keep control and to keep my mouth shut. But what was I supposed to say to this voice. For a moment I almost wished that something else would take control of what I was supposed to say, but I finally managed to squeak out, "What do you want from me?"
The voice again appeared. "You are part of a study on writing, remember? You signed a contract."
My stomach dropped. I had signed a contract that left me imprisoned in this room with nothing but a typewriter? What was I thinking? As I sat trying desperately to remember anything about my situation, the lights began to dim, and the room became black around me.