It was the blaring of a warbling alarm that drew him back to consciousness with a muttered curse. Rolling over, he tried to ignored it, but as it continued on and sleep was wrenched further and further from him, a sense of...wrongness settled in with each warble. Was it supposed to sound like that? 

Sitting up, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, groaning as the alarm continued its assault on his ears. "Het daardie vervlakste ding geen einde nie!"

Opening his eyes to glare at his surroundings, he was met by the sight of a plain, white room, empty of all but some writing supplies and a tiny flashlight on top of a small bookshelf next to the bed. There couldn't be more than twenty books, a meager excuse of a collection if there ever was one. 

His apparel wasn't very reassuring either. Grey trousers and shirt with a blue patch on the chest and... WAS HE WEARING A COLLAR?! THE HELL?!! 

What was going on? Where was this place? It sure wasn't home, that much he knew! Then again...he wasn't exactly sure where that was either... 

A sickening feeling started to settle in his gut as he attempted to backtrack. Trying to recall anything from his past, his home, his family, his name...he was met only with failure. Head falling into his hands, he allowed himself one minute to mutter every curse in his vocabulary before forcing himself to get it together just as the alarm finally squeaked to a stop. The silence that followed was both eerie and a relief at the same time. 

Not about to waste any longer on just sitting around, he stood up. Sparing a quick glance at the open door, he made his way to the bookcase. He might as well take stock of his immediate surroundings before heading into even less known territory. 

The writing supplies proved to be disappointing, seeing as there weren't any pens and the pencils were made out of rubber - a pain for anyone to write with. The lights flickered and he grabbed the flashlight, it may be small with limited range, but it was better than nothing. That just left the books. 

"Lord of the rings, Koning van Katoren, a world atlas, die nege Buiter boeke, Sense and sensibility, drie Shakespeare's en Terry Pratchett se Mort...well, quality over quantity en als..." Reaching out, he stroked the backs of the books softly. He may not be able to remember his name, but he knew these books, loved each one of them, a clear sign of their importance to him. Fingers landing of one of two unmarked books, he pulled it out and opened it. 

It appeared to be a journal, the handwriting painfully familiar (his own, maybe?), but the dialect in which it was written... He couldn't place it. He recognized some words and letters, but most of it, while familiar, escaped him. He did see a doodle of what appeared to be a person getting stabbed with a pencil(?) that might explain the rubber, but he couldn't be sure. 

Not seeing anything else of note, he took a step towards the room's only exit, glanced at the ominous flickering of the lights and the atlas joined the flashlight in his hands. It might just be a book, but it was big and could hit hard, which was better than nothing. 

"Ek sweer, as een of ander bleddie ongedierte iewers uitspring, gaan ek iemand iets aandoen."

Stepping outside, he glanced around the hall. The lights flickered and silence surrounded him. Holding the book at the ready, he started walking down. "Hallo, enigiemand daar? Anybody there?" 

Hopefully he'll find the exit soon as well as some answers as to what the hell was going on...