A Pencil
A pencil. That’s it? That was your saving grace, the last hope of escape?? It’s not even sharpened. A pencil would shred away faster than your nails and wouldn’t even grow back. What were you supposed to do with a pencil?
You stick it in the corner and keep digging. Eventually you stop when you notice something bump against your foot. It’s that pencil again. You move to stick it back in the corner so you can continue to pretend it doesn’t exist, but there was already a pencil there.
Well lucky you. Two pencils. You put it right next to the first one and turn back around. Another pencil. And another and another. They kept appearing. After a few hours you have enough to line the room. 2,153 pencils around. That’s how big it is. And they fit perfectly. Not a gap between them.
The pencils keep coming. So you start stacking them higher. You discover that you can make a crude cement by combining the erasers with your spit, and with that discovery you’re able to fill the walls, and the floor, and eventually the ceiling. Everything is covered in pencils and when you place the final one, covering the perfect dimensions of the room, they all collapse on top of you.
You try to brush them away, but they keep coming. You’re buried in a crushing avalanche of pencils. Your breath gets faster and you start to panic, gasping for air. You frantically claw at the pencils around you and start to dig your way..