trigger post

A monster. That's the only word for it - it's a person, but it's a monster. Skittering across the walls and ceiling, coating this warehouse in some strange, viscous material that covers the windows and the doors, blotting out sound and keeping you trapped. It's obssessed, and it's taken you, the object of its obsession, here.
The food is the unappetizing, prepackaged kind, and it doesn't trust you with so much as a kitchen knife, so you're eating soup and fruit out of cans, along with the occasional biscuit. It tries to be nice, sweet, some odd alien purr to its voice, but you hate it. You've begged it to let you go, tried to escape yourself, but it's smart, it's good at what it does, and you can't get free.
One day, a week into your ordeal, its sticky, slimy fingers grasp your shoulders, then your chin, forcing you to look at it. It presses its equally sticky snout up against you, its long, alien tongue trying to worm its way past your lips. It's trying to kiss you, you realize in horror and disgust. Trigger.