Part 2

I decided to distract myself by concentrating on figuring out where I was. I had no immediate memory of anything, apart from getting ready this morning in what I assumed was my bedroom. Everything after that was blank. Often dreams didn't make sense, just like this.
Studying my surroundings, I saw I was in some sort of basement - this explained the lack of windows or air. The walls were bare brick, apart from one side which looked as if someone had started to plaster it then given up. The other three were stacked with old moving-in boxes, a washing and drying machine, and some bookcases.
There was a treadmill and some weights near the washing machine, looking like the only objects in the room that were well-used but weren't covered in a layer of dust. On top of an old cardboard box sat a collection of Polaroid cameras and lenses. They looked well taken care of, like their owner had just momentarily placed them there. Like their owner might be coming back for them soon. The narrow staircase that ran along the half-plastered wall had no door at the top of it, and a small cupboard under it.
I ventured over to the cameras, backed up to the wall opposite the scene at the bottom of the stairs. Resolutely keeping my eyes on the equipment, and not glancing towards the eye-catching pools of red growing gradually larger, I turned my back on the body. I could sense menace radiating from every corner of this room. It looked like any other basement, but there was something.. I couldn't put my finger on it. Something was wrong with this room, though – besides the dead body that looked like my identical twin. My instincts were warring with each other: Part of me screamed to get out, get away from this room, while the other told me I needed to stay.
While they battled, I decided to preoccupy my mind with the cameras. Whoever left them out wouldn't mind if I took a peak at some of their pictures, otherwise they would have hidden them away out of sight. I could see through a hole in the box they were laying on that there were tons of developed pictures stacked inside. A digital camera lay alongside the box, separate from the older, more technical equipment. It looked as if it had been used recently, taken from the pile on top of the box of photos then quickly placed beside them before they left. I reached forward, my curiosity pushing me on. When my hands enclosed around the rough plastic case, I couldn't feel the texture. I couldn't really feel it at all, except that it was solid. Moving to pick it up, I found it wouldn't move. Tugging again, with more strength this time, it didn't even budge. I gave up, glaring at the black box, perplexed as to why I couldn't left it. This was a dream though, I reminded myself. Maybe I wasn't meant to see the pictures yet.
There was some paper shoved down behind the cardboard box, catching my eye as it looked freshly printed out, and not faded like the rest of the junk down here. Again, I gripped the edge with my hand, thinking just to swiftly tug it out. Again, nothing happened.
The non-feeling that had suffused me felt almost claustrophobic to me now. Like being rolled up in cotton wool, in body and mind. I felt trapped, the two instincts suddenly spiking, becoming more urgent as they fought each other. I desperately wanted to feel the textures, the smooth plastic of the camera, the friction of the rubber grip, to feel something besides this nothing that had blanketed me.