The Seventh Scrape

There are seven rough lines scraped into the cell wall beside me.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a 28 day writing challenge. I've not seen sunlight in days.

If you’re here by accident, call the police.

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I’m losing track of how many stairs I’ve descended.

In fact, I can’t even recall where I am.

The shaft is wide and endlessly deep, the spiral staircase increasingly rickety and exposed to the depths. It’s getting darker as I go, and I’ve long since stopped trying to use my phone; no one is answering right now, and the signal has faded with the daylight above me.

There is a dreamlike quality to this scene, but I can smell the decay of wood, hear the urgent whispers of rusting iron nails, and can see my breath in the cold half light as the platform shifts under my weight.

Peering carefully over the edge, a frown I was unaware of deepens; the stairs continue, jerking down in an eccentric manner, almost defying perspective, into somewhere far darker than black.

I like a good metaphor as much as the next person, but this is unsettling me now. I think about turning round and heading back. Up, to the distant light.

My phone buzzes in the darkness. Finally!

A text message awaits me:

You can't walk away now.

And behind me, someone chuckles darkly.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013