You wake in a room not much bigger than a broom closet. Stretching your arms out, the tips of your fingers can just barely touch the walls. Immediately in front of you is a door, or what you take to be a door, at any rate. Filled up to your waist is bones; the sight of which causes you to gag; they rub and push and prick you from all angles, bathing you in the wretchedness of the past. You gag again: vomit cascades down your front. You try and push forward.