I wake up with a start, dazed and breathing like I just ran a marathon. Quickly, I tear the pilly, itchy, swampy sheets off my naked body with more celerity than my tired limbs should have been able to manage.
Deep breaths. Feet to cold, jagged floor, then stand upright. Left, right, left, right. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm going there anyway. Anywhere but here. Here is strange. Here is scary. Here is wrong.
My legs catch up with me. They start to tremble, unable to keep up with the strain of my movements. Then my knees give out, and suddenly I'm tasting salt-blasted sandstone with the tiniest hint of metallic, doctor's-office-flickering-lights, pristine-linoleum-floor, sanitized-finger-prick-needle blood.
The sudden wave of vertigo leaves just as quickly as it came, and for the first time I truly get the chance examine my surroundings. The ceiling, being the first thing I notice due to my current point of view, is covered in tiny stalactites. Every once in a while, a small rivulet of water leisurely rolls down one of them. It hangs on the precipice of the pointed rock before inevitably surrendering and falling to the uneven floor below, pooling with it's brethren. I briefly wonder where the water is coming from, but abandon the train of thought as soon as my headache begins to make itself known once more.
The walls match the floor in texture, or so I assume. They look very much the same, at the least. I turn my head to the other side, and see the bed I just clambered from. It is flush against the wall, roughly ten feet from my current position on the ground. It is small and nondescript, with a beige, flimsy sheet covering the stained mattress.
More notably, next to it sits an old television tray. On it rests a candle, still lit and burning; a moldy, wrinkly, dusty old book; a quill and inkwell; and a glass of water with a few ice cubes floating around it, water condensing on the outside from the humid air.
My heart sinks deeper into my chest.
I didn't fill that glass of water or light that candle.
Somebody else has to be down here with me.
Wait.
Wait.
Who is "me"?
I look down at my hands, and for the first time I notice how undeniably wrinkly they are. Splotches of purple skin are scattered about my arms, and the rest of my body as well—signs of injuries and bruises from times long past. I reach one of my disgusting, gnarled hands up to my face. It feels just as wrinkly as the rest of me, if not more so. My fingers slide upward onto my scalp, and I stroke them through my brittle, thin hair. Out of alarm, I jerk my hand away, unintentionally bringing a clump my hair with me. It's bleach white, just like my pale skin.
My headache slams into me like a freight train, and I throw my head into my hands. It hurts to think about it—to think about me.
My head jerks upward, and my eyes settle on the wall opposite me. Right there, obvious to me now that I noticed it, is a hole in the wall. It stands a couple feet tall, and slightly less wide—just big enough for a human to squeeze through, if she had the desire to.
...
...
...
...For some reason, I have the desire to. Maybe I can find some answers.
I drag myself over to the bed—my bed?—and pull myself up onto it. I take a moment to catch my breath. After making a split-second decision, I reach over and risk a small sip of the water; my throat is more dry than I expected it to be. Just how long was I asleep for? I quickly down the whole glass, water splashing all down my chest. I slam the glass back down on the makeshift nightstand and wipe the excess moisture from my mouth, thirst now sufficiently quenched.
Once my breathing regulates itself, I push myself to my feet once more. With much more care than last time, I take step after unsteady step over to the crevice in the wall. Slowly but surely, my balance stabilizes, and I finish the trek across the room, if it can even be called that.
Upon arriving, I crouch down. My back protests fervently, but I ignore its hopeless pleas for the time being. There will soon come a time for complaining, and that time is not now. I'm acting on borrowed time. I'm using a borrowed body. I am borrowed. Haste is more than a virtue in this situation; it is a necessity.
Twenty yards in, the little fissure gradually begins to increase in size. After twenty more, it is more of a cave than a small tunnel. I can walk upright with ease, and my back is very thankful for the fact.
Now that the pain is gone, I notice how quiet—and how dark—these catacombs really are.
The darkness around me is suffocating, and the silence is doubly so. I shiver and pull the candle closer to my chest. I have no reason to be scared, but I can't help it. I wander helplessly down the path, one hand holding onto my only light source and the other running along the wall.
After twenty minutes of navigating the caves, I come to a three-way intersection. One path veers off to the left, another takes a sharp right, and the other shoots straight down the line directly in front of me.
Without thinking, I clench my eyes shut and turn right.
I traverse the tunnels for an eternity longer, never knowing where or why I am going. I make arbitrary turns here and there, without rhyme or reason. It doesn't really matter though, so long as I am going somewhere.
Suddenly, I hear voices. Two voices, I believe: one old, wise, and gravelly, the other young and exulted, full of such sheer happiness that only an adolescent could possibly possess. Their words are muffled from the distance between us, so I can't make them out. I quickly oust my candle—the light bouncing off the walls could give away my position—and creep forward, bound by my curiosity.
I'm now close enough that I can hear them clearly, though I can't see them. They are just around the corner, but I don't dare peek around to look. Not yet.
"Hey Granddad, can I ask you a question?" the younger of the two asks.
"Of course," comes the reply, steady and confident and not without a small twang of melancholy.
The younger voice pauses for a moment, contemplating. Eventually, he simply settles on one word: "Why?"