Part 1
And as the sky covered its face weeping between its gray fingers, I reached to wipe its tears away, Knowing all too well, there was no one to catch mine.
1.
This morning I woke up.
There’s a cellar door at my feet covered in moss, vines, foliage. A tapestry of green and brown strangling (suffocating) the inorganic steel. Overzealous Nature in its futile attempt to retake this spot, this affront. I’m surrounded by Onlookers. Diseased. Judgmental.
Rays of light twitch along the metal surface. They blink, their eyes shaking in frustration; the disappointed stares from the canopies. I’m alone. The insects are watching, unmoving. They caught the matinee, no trailers, popcorn in hand, standing room only, the main feature. Silent once I got to the cellar door. I saw a dead squirrel on my way here.
I reach for the handle, brushing away some leaves. Rust crumbles between my fingers. I smell iron. The handle’s rotting skin shifts in my grip as I lift the doors. They groan in protest - it’s all they can do. The leaves whisper mockingly. The doors relent.
Neglected concrete stairs descend into darkness. Impenetrable as if the trees closed their eyes once the doors opened. Visibility about 12 feet in. My flashlight muted against the Descent.
I pick up a pebble. Toss it down the stairs. It bounces once before being consumed by the Dark Maw. Something’s awakened. It regards me from a distance. Shapeless, but known. I can feel Its warm breath against my cheek.
I take a step, then another. The wind caresses the back of my neck. I hesitate. Almost convincing. I should close the doors. Don’t want an audience. I’ll hear the doors open. It’s safe in the dark.
Unravel. The word rattles in my mind. Like a whimper from a kid hiding under his blanket. The sound tickling the Darkness he kept at bay as It hovers over the fragile figure. “Maybe this night”, It thinks. Expectantly, desperately, patiently.
Unravel. A single strand. Fingered, then pulled. Extended, stretched. Too late, you realize. It’s all come undone. A mass of string in your hands. Unfurled and useless. You throw It out.
Unravel. Days turn to weeks to months to years. Unremarkable days on an all white calendar. No holidays, no birthdays. Just numbers counting down. A pile of torn calendar pages at my feet. I’ll need a new one soon.
Unravel. Here I am.
3.
I walk down the steps. Each one seemingly melting into the concrete, my toes like pieces of rubble on the stairs. I pause. Touch the wall. It pulsates. It’s angry. At least I can’t hear the leaves.
The flashlight is panting in my hands, struggling against the darkness. It offers a paltry warm glow only capable of about two or three feet in front of me. Its dull circle consumed no matter where it points. My clammy grip failing to provide it any comfort. I switch hands to no avail.
I turn it off. Motionless, I listen. The Beast slumbers. I reach out - grab air. I reach to the side. Feel the wall. It reacts my attention. Welcomes my fingers in its pliable embrace. I can feel them slide further into the wall like digging into mud. Each atom it takes explodes like shattering ice.
I pull back.
“Not yet.” I say. I need to hear it. Outloud. It didn’t bounce around the stairs like it did in my mind. Fell flat. Something for my flashlight to hug by my feet.
4.
Secret Eyes. Scratch. Scratch. Scratching.