Stairs 2 then? Idk

My feet never had a firm grip with the time dirtied floor of the Landing. My second foot never left the top step, in fact. As soon as that first foot hit the tiles and my heart was squeezed and adrenaline shot through my veins, I was gone. But I wasn't. In the time it took for me to lift my foot from that Landing, the mere milliseconds between sole contacting ceramic and lifting in gut-wrenching fear, days had passed. Immediately, my vision tunneled and I witnessed the death of a thousand deaths. Not just witnessed. Experienced. I felt my own death. I felt my soul being wrenched from my body and I promise you, it isn't the vision you see in cartoons. There is no soft ascension of the spirit from a still body. No, death is much more violent. At least a dozen demons tore my spirit from me, reaching into my chest and clawing open my mouth, holding my body to the ground, motionless. My soul wasn't motionless. It grasped and begged for life, tears streaming from my ghastly cheeks. As I was pulled from my body, I looked upon my own lifeless face, one not of comfort and peace, but the face of someone in the middle of a horrible nightmare yet unable to wake up. I felt as if I was the one being pulled from my body, yet I could feel it. I felt my very essence being sliced apart from my physical being. Spirit, torn from tendons; everything in my ethereal being trying desperately to hold on to what is real, but unable. The demons ripped me from the world I knew, pulling me through tile and concrete, thirty floors below and thousands of floors below that. Every foot I was pulled, I experienced more. I felt the deaths of my family, of my friends. I felt the deaths of people I hadn't known, but had seen, on streets, in buildings. At work, in school, on television or heard on radios. I didn't just witness their deaths, though I did. I watched them die, each of them horrible, HORRIBLE deaths, but I also felt it. I felt it in body, as if their deaths had happened to me, and I felt it as I would as someone close. I felt their separation and the knowledge of the impossibility of their return. Even those I hadn't known I felt as if I had known them all my life, as if they were family. I felt all these deaths at once, including my own. The death of a thousand deaths means. Just. That. Each foot I was dragged below, I fell victim to another death. Each inch. Each millimeter. Tortures were bestowed upon me in terms of witness and victim. All at once. Omnipresence inflicted solely on presences of torture and failure to exist. And, oh, how I felt the failure to exist. Common knowledge presents the fact that the failure to exist is the failure to feel, but I assure you otherwise. The failure to exist is without a doubt beyond anything you have ever experienced and I promise you it is not something you wish to. I felt each death separately and on its own and I felt them all together as well. Time stood no resistance. If one thing in life will rule over time, it is death and it is this single fact that I learned of my experience. I felt Hell. I felt feelings beyond Hell. In Hell you can only experience the pain of your own existence. I, on the other hand, felt the Hellish experiences of thousands. All at once. One at a time. Time stood idly by as I was born witness to and fell victim to the tortures of the most anti-divine creatures ever birthed into mankind. I watched as people undeserving were swallowed in darkness. I heard the screams of the innocents. Terrible screams. Helpless, godless, unanswered screams of banshees. What had I done to deserve this? I wondered.
With less detail, my foot peeled itself from cold clay and fled from that awful place. I fell down two flights of steel fire escape stairs on my way down, cracking a rib and catching my left ring finger on a rail, twisting it until it touched the back of my wrist. Still I fled. I reached the third floor and failed to swing the swingaway ladder, opting to jump instead. This is how I fractured my jaw, as the impact of thirty feet of gravity brought my knees to my chin. The doctors called me lucky. I call myself damned. Now I only lie awake at night, wide eyed in the black, heart pounding and hands gripping sheets, wondering when the darkness will be hiding the tortures promised me. Contemplating the day when those dozen demons grasp my motionless body and tear me from myself with the most horrific pain that I can only long for because it is pleasurable when compared to the terrible sensations I will feel mere moments later. As I said, my family feels it too. This evil, this physical black, this contagious cancer, infected me, the volunteer, and has spread its vicious tentacles to those around me. They don't know why. Their shrinks can't explain the conditions but I can. But I can't. How do I tell them that they experience dread in every moment because of me? Their paranoia and depression, phobias and illness. How can one experience be so utterly horrific that it affects my closest? I pray you heed this warning. Do NOT be curious. Do NOT seek The Hotel. Do NOT seek the Landing. I admit my lack of ability to accurately portray the horror of horrors. DO NOT take my inability in vocabulary and literacy as an invitation to a makeshift thrill ride. I ask you for your own safety and sanity. Mine is forfeited. I sacrifice my own for you. For your sake, forget this ever happened. Martyrdom is my future. My today.