It wasnâ€™t the sight of blood that made him sick to his stomach, but rather the smell of blood and a possibly rotting corpse nailed to the wall the way Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross. Combined with the manner in which the blood was displayed: the artist creating horrid splatters that reminded him of Rorschach paintings was absolutely unnerving and yet he could not help but stare at the markings almost as if he was in a trance. The room was dark, barely made anything visible and the dying candle was but a mere ember now so he could barely see anything. Soon the sense of danger swelled up so quickly in a way that almost made it tangible. Maxwell covered his nose and tried not to vomit as his headache suddenly became worse to the point where he felt nauseous and weak.<br/><br/>He put his back against the wall and buried his face in his hands for a moment as he blocked out the dangers poking at him with knives. His heart skipped a beat when he swore he heard something in the room; was he alone? Looking around he felt he was the only person here but there was a sense. Eyes watching his every movement â€“the walls had eyes. When Maxwell moved his hand to touch the wall behind him, he half expected to find himself touching an eye but it was just solid rock. Damn, solid rock. Or whatever this place was made out of, he told himself as he looked at his hand. The candle was fading quickly.<br/><br/>Maxwell knew he had to find another light source, but there was something holding him down. Something in this room? Maybe. Then again maybe he was losing it, he wasnâ€™t sure. He just felt that there was something in this room. And he had to get out. Now.<br/><br/>Mustering up what little courage he had, he took a step forward, feeling extremely weak and lightheaded. The entire room was spinning and more questions began to claw at the back of his mind relentlessly. But he kept going, knowing, somewhere deep down, that he could not turn back even if he wanted to. There was something in this room. The man was watching him. Somethingâ€¦ in this roomâ€¦ the bloodâ€¦ the hanged manâ€¦ Sanity slippingâ€¦ with each step he took. Weak. The candle was nearing the section of wick that was closer to his hand. Maxwell came out of his slight trance long enough to realize he was staggering towards a wall when the flame touched his skin. He straightened his path and focused on the long hallway that was just beyond the doorframe.<br/><br/>When did he pick the candle back up? Didnâ€™t he place it on a holder? He noticed that he had, but the melted wax was moving around in the tray and it had touched his hand. Maxwell held his head and groaned. A part of him wanted to look back at the room one last time but he could not bring himself to search it. The smell was terrible. This hallway didnâ€™t smell any better; it reeked of mold and blood, neglect. It felt oppressive and rather frightening, for lack of better word, as well, and if he wandered down it he may not like what he found. Nevertheless, the note said to escape and Maxwell decided he would do just that.<br/><br/>Escape, and find some light. He felt that light would calm his nerves.<br/><br/>He took a deep breath and held out his dying candle, watching it slowly fade away and eventually go out as he walked. Sudden panic hit him and he could feel his stride begin to falter as he searched for a window or any other source of light. Perhaps he would find something, or maybe he would end up wandering around blind for all eternity. There was something in the back of his mind amongst the chaos that told him he deserved to wander the darkness for all eternity.