One person, one beam, five personalities, maybe six, possibly seven.

Mark

Ouch. Cold. Doors open. Needs to close. Can hear them. Gross. Slimy. Moist. Right foot. Fuck. Floor. Dusty. Needs a scrub.

Sally

Ok, wow, that kinda itches, and feels, not too bad, cool with a core of frigid or like a sip of ice water on a hot day, not pleasant, but nice. Someone left the steel door open. The screech of those things, so not like the zombies the movies promised. More ooze and way more like gag-with-me-a-spoon vomit. Someone, me, I guess, has to close the door. Although, really, maybe I could hide. In an empty room? I would have thought that they would at least have a chair, because, metal on metal with fluorescent lights, so, I dunno, last century scifi movie, with the bad props and obvious human-suited monsters.

Ok, like, relax, the door will get closed before those things arrive, like four steps, or maybe five, and, oh, my golly goodness, why did I fall? Why does the floor have dust on it? Why does my body, the one I have lived in my whole life, you know, since birth, not work right anymore?

Freddy

Fuck, that stupid shitty beam almost hurt. God fucking dammit. Those fuckers left the door open, because of course they did. They want me to die. They need scapegoats. Assholes. And I bet they put those things just outside the door. No weapons. No nothing. Fuckers. Bet I could rip those slimy mutant things apart with my bare hands. Paint the walls with them. Get some color in here. Let them come. Their freakin’ noises don’t scare me. Fucking, nothing scares me. Fighting time. Lead with the left to hit with the right.