Dig
You scratch at the wall, frantically at first, begging for it to give, to let you out, but nothing changes.
Nothing except your own shredded fingernails and the new bloodstains added to the mural.
You start to see how long the tiny little depression had taken to wear down. Barely deep enough for you to fit your finger in, and it was the culmination of years of pain. Of rage, of pleading, of desperation, of despair. A legacy in which you would be the next link.
You scramble around, feeling for anything that could possibly help in digging away at this wall. But as you move further and further away, the room doesn't end. There's just empty space all around you, broken only by the image of that wall. That bloody, towering wall.
Finally after hours of searching, you feel your hands brush up against something, and when you lift it to your eyes, with a jolt of joy, you see..