Write.

South Carolina, 2004.
 
 We were staying in a hotel while on our beach trip. We walked down to the indoor pool which was filled with chirping—teenage girls gossiping and boys splashing one another. The scent of chlorine was unavoidable but oh-so inviting, even more so under the fluorescent lights that kept the dark sky at bay. My sister Maria joined the girls while my brother Jacob and I played volleyball. Mom and Dad were discussing something and sat down with our towels and bags.
 It was one of those kind of perfect days. Not the ones that you remember forever and hold dear to you until the day you die—just a really good day. We went out to the beach, checked into our hotel, and went to some festival of lights, before returning to the pool. It was maybe eleven, eleven thirty? The pool was the perfect way to end the day. I glanced at Maria, who had migrated with her newfound friends to the hot tub at the pool's corner.
 A loud splash was one of the last things I remembered. I looked over and a boy had his hands around a long, thick white pipe above the pool, laughing down at his friend who had fallen into the water before him. I looked at Jacob and laughed at their stupidity; it wouldn't shock me if the thing broke and they fell. Me and Jacob never understood how Maria befriended the most random people while we were on vacations—we tended to stick to ourselves far more than she did. Vacations were still wonderful though. I loved family time.
 “Wanna get a drink?” Jacob asked. I nodded.
 “Sure,” I said, swimming over to the corner my parents were near.
 “Ew, not out of the cooler. There’s a vending machine down the hall,” Jacob said. “Mom and Dad only have that vitamin water crap, I want a Cheerwine.”
 “Do they even have those in South Carolina?” I asked.
 “Surely,” Jacob said. “Come on,” he urged, getting out of the pool.
 “Oh, have some dignity, dry off,” I said.
 “Nah.”
 Jacob walked off while I dried off with a towel. By the time I was done, he was back—with a Cheerwine in hand—and tossed me a dollar. “Pay me back double,” he said. I rolled my eyes and walked down the hall—which was carpeted after a while, mind you, so Jacob really was indignant—until I found the vending machine. I put a dollar in and tapped on the Cheerwine button.
 Nothing happened. I tapped again.
 Nothing.
 “Oh, come on!” I shouted. I slammed against it for a few minutes, hitting it on the side and everything, but the Cheerwine never came. Defeated, I walked back to the pool, perhaps to enlist Jacob’s help. I don’t really remember my thoughts during that moment, as the next event to occur certainly outmatched the whole Cheerwine incident in importance.
 “No Cheerwine,” I said. “The machine stole your dollar—”
 My eyes scanned the entire pool. Jacob wasn’t there. He wasn’t the only person missing—no, Mom and Dad weren’t lounging, Maria and company weren’t in the hot tub, there was no one attached to the pipe…
 “Y’all?” I asked. “Anyone?”
 The only response came from the hum-buzz of the industrial white fluorescence from above and the overwhelming scent of chlorine. The scent was so assaulting I could practically taste it.
 I looked around for a minute straight.
 “Alright, hilarious, come out now.”
 Nothing.
 “Please?”
 Nothing.
 After a while I walked back down the hall, to the lobby. No one was there. Not a soul in any of the chairs, not a clerk or janitor in sight. I tried to walk out of the building, but the door was locked. A thick layer of black fog sat outside, too, piercing my gaze and staring back at me…
 An hour in, I went up to our room. I tried the key. It worked. None of our stuff was in there, though—it was completely empty, only the basic appliances. It didn’t take me long to come back down. The second I got down the stairs, I sat down next to the wall.
 I cried.
 I pleaded. 
 I hugged my knees and sat for hours as tears soaked my already damp trunks, sobbing like a toddler on his first day of preschool. Snatched from my family, from the world I knew, I just wanted it to end. Like a wounded animal, I held myself tight, for I knew no one else would. 
 The grip of isolation was as unbeatable as it was unbearable.
 That night was the worst of my life. My final night, too, if this keeps up.
 I don’t know where I am.
 I haven’t seen anyone.
 Day never comes. It's always night. I don’t even know how long it’s been, but it’s been weeks. Maybe months. I can’t even tell anymore. I don’t starve, I don’t thirst, and I hardly tire. I try to sleep, but I end up in tears, clawing and hitting at the mattress.
 It turns out all the rooms don’t need a key. I’ve been in all of them, multiple times, looking for a way out. Begging for a way out. I tried to break the window in several of them.
 Impenetrable.
 If only my mind had such a quality.
 Like the bedsheets each night, anointed with tears and scratches, or the rooms I’ve defaced with rage I fear the only way out is to deface myself in the same way.
 Jason M,
 2004.
 I dropped the journal. Every page after that penultimate one was ripped out or ineligible, mindless pencil strokes having turned each paper into a flurry of words above a coat of dark gray. 
 2004... two years ago. Where was I?
 Regardless, the Mendoza fellow must have just been insane, right? Sure, it was odd that I'd left from a hotel in Hungary and ended up here under very similar circumstances—but despite these unusual happenings... the fellow seemed a bit troubled, if we're judging just from his writing.
 Anyhow, Mr. Mendoza's entry was only the first in a line of journals I found sat upon the hotel's front desk. Next, Tanako Kaito. Japan, 2005.
 Just add to the pile. You're not getting out. At least if anyone ever comes here, they may figure out what happened here. I've left you a notebook from one of the rooms above. Your experiences will be the same as mine and as Mr. Mendoza's. Take this as a preface. Instead of reading, just write. Write. Write.
 I slammed it shut. This was getting unnerving. I picked up the next journal, and a pencil fell out. I looked around, as if to bargain for a way out...
 Well, perhaps I should take Tanako Kaito's advice. But they're certainly as looney as Jason Mendoza.
 Right?
 Write.