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PUBLISHED IN SEPT.2023

By J. D. Lair

There is a faint light spilling through a cracked open door on the other side of the room. Everything else is dark around you. It smells of old dust with a hint of iron and the ground is cold against your bare back. A deep silence permeates the space, a quiet that echoes the white noise in the small spaces of your ears.

As you sit up, you realize you are not bound by anything. Your memory is blank with no clue of where you are or how you came to be here. A shadow passes over the light in the doorway and your skin prickles all over. *A malfunction of the light source, or am I not alone?* you think to yourself.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

Nothing. You raise yourself off the floor and peer through the doorway. Outside is a dimly lit hallway, the light coming from a faraway window. You pass through the door and the hinges squeal from timeless neglect. The floor out here feels slick and angled at a sharp degree toward the light. From your limited vision, it appears yours is the sole door in this dreary enclosure. You tread towards the light with the utmost caution, skating like a newborn deer desperate to keep your balance.

It ends in a wall of rough-hewn stone. The window sits high above you and you cut your arms straining to reach it. A glance at the floor reveals it is crimson stained. Scars like intricate tapestries run the length of your body. Several scabs are in various stages of healing and you realize you have tried this before.

*How many times? How long have I been here?*

You look up again and see streaks on the glass. The light outside begins to fade, but you feel hope blooming inside. Success has been within reach before so you believe you could do it again. A resolve to continue trying builds up within you. An echo at the base of your brain suggests trying the other two walls. You reach out to discover they are smooth and closer together than expected. It's as if the hallway narrowed as you ascended, so you decide to use it to your advantage.

With your feet wedged on opposite walls, you reach out your hands for stability. Though the rough wall hurts your hands, it provides a better means of grip. Your feet scream with burning sensations as the scars upon them stretch to their limit. Scabs from all extremities begin to weep, as do your eyes. Thoughts of escape supersede the instincts of avoiding pain and you begin to climb. The walls start growing slick beneath your grasp, so you pick up the pace. *Right hand, left hand. Right foot, left foot.* Soon, and with much effort, you reach your desired destination. Your haggard breath fogs up the window before your face.

It's hard to tell through the condensation, but the outside looks desolate. *Is it tundra or desert out there?* Distracted, you begin to slide a bit. You readjust your body so both feet are on one wall and your shoulder blades wedge into the other. This frees up your hands to search for a latch or other means of opening the window. The walls have grown tacky now, a blessing.

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