Darkness, then a click. A high-pitched whine starts at the edge of my hearing as the dim orange light seeps down from the ceiling. Dim disorientation. Two flickers -- out of sync -- pulsc overhead, then brilliance flashes through the hall. But the glare remains steady, like the moment captured in a flashbulb, but prolonged unbearably, unimaginably, a ghastly, glaring yellow-green like the light yawning from a cold, antiseptic, artificial vision of hell. The high-pitched whine burns its way into my consciousness, endless, unchanging, implacable, erasing all thought, all hope.
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