You look up at the bicycles. Hundreds of them hang from the ceiling.
Don't be so nervous about this, your mind tells you repeatedly. What is done is done, and there is nothing more that you can do; what you deserve is what you deserve, and that fact is inescapable; and what you're going to pay is what you're going to pay, and that--
You shudder as the briefly-creaking lamp from the ceiling sways a little bit. The light from the lamp glints red off of the jungle of hanging bicycles from the gallow-like ceiling beams, the bicycles looking down at you in asphyxiated agony. Your heart starts to pound once again as you look towards the northern, shadow-flooded wall of the garage.
12th place (out of 24) in the 15th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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Non-interactive, depressing story about teen-angst. I must be too old for this. The overwrought religious symbolism (up to self-crucifiction!) doesn't exactly help, either.