And with a gentle, almost playful, shove, he pushed me into the narrow opening. I tumbled the first few feet, feeling the wiry hairs on the tunnel wall press into me. By the time I straightened out into a downward slide, my clothing was already shredded. Time slowed, allowing me hours to realize what was happening. I flailed, trying to catch myself, but the dreadful hairs rubbed the skin off my hands when I grasped them and dug into my flesh like daggers when I tried to reach up for them. I was vaguely aware that my slide downward was picking up momentum, but my consciousness only slowed. There would be no way out. This thought turned itself over and over in my mind. Part of me could feel cuts opening in my back as I slid on the razor hairs, but such pain was overwhelmed by the acute knowledge that only worse was in store.
I cannot say how long the slide lasted. Eventually Time caught up and there I was, plunging feet first down a seemingly endless tunnel of thorns, being torn to ribbons as I went. But then a dark gulf opened below me, and I began my struggles anew. Shredded to ribbons or slowly melted away, one layer of skin at a time...
My choice -- for a moment of false hope, I actually imagined that I had, in fact, a say in the matter -- would naturally have been to impale myself on one of the stiff hairs: to end it quickly. But there was no holding on and no chance to reverse my downward spiral. The blackness before me spread and spread until suddenly the sliding stopped and I was falling, falling.
I won't say I splashed into the puddle below the tunnel. The viscous fluid caught me and sucked me into itself. For a long moment, I lay still, too paralyzed from the wild ride down the tunnel to take in my condition. But, before long, the fluid began to cover my face and instinct moved me to keep my head up. I thought for a moment to try to tread in the thick bog, but found that my feet could just touch the bottom. I rested here, still dazed. And then the burning began.
Already lacerated, my back and arms felt the sting most strongly. I lost my breath at the pain. One becomes accustomed to the worst pains rather quickly, finding a distraction and numbing to the areas that hurt. The sting died down a moment after it began, although a low, background throbbing of these lacerated portions never quite left me. The counter-pain -- the distraction -- came from all directions at once. The mire began it's work; my skin began to corrode.
A foggy shaft of light shone in from the tunnel above -- just enough for me to strain my eyes trying to see something -- anything -- other than the bog. But there was nothing else to see. I lifted my hands out of the liquid and held them up in front of me. The fluid didn't run off; it clung to me instead. I tried rubbing it off, and thought for a moment that I was succeeding, until I realized to my horror that a layer of my skin was rubbing off as well. At this, a thrill of pain ran through my entire body. The first protective layers of skin -- the part that could numb itself up and protect the nerves -- began to fall away.
Pain motivated frantic motion. Before I could think, I was wading, splashing, searching for the walls of this lake. I encountered it rather quickly and began feeling for handholds. Of course there were none. The walls were smooth to the touch and just rubbery enough to give a bit when pushed instead of showing any sign of breaking. I scratched ineffectively at it for a while, until I realized that there were no fingernails to scratch with. I backpedaled in horror, realizing how much my hands had been damaged by the endeavor.
The burning increased with a sudden jolt -- another layer of skin worn away.
I suppose I swooned for a time, lost in terror and pain. What brought me back to consciousness was a sound. Was it really a sound? Or maybe a phantom illusion. It seemed to me that voices were calling to me. Familiar voices; voices of friends and family. I couldn't make out their words, but the tones in the voices suggested at first a gentle calling of my name, asking me to come to them. They gained in volume and urgency. They crescendoed! They stopped. The ensuing silence pressed me louder after this experience. At first I imagined this to just be a contrast between the sound outside this horrid pit and the quietness inside. But then reality set in. As I had lain in the murk, some had seeped into my ears... I realized now that only my face had been saved from a thorough coating of the digestive bile.
Time crawled, dragging itself through the mud around me. Another jolt of pain was all that heralded its passing. And, for a while, I simply stood. My mind filibustered for a time before finally having to quiet itself and realize the situation in full. Bit by bit, piece by piece, my body would melt away until there was nothing left, nothing left. First my skin, and then my veins and arteries would open up and my muscles would begin to atrophy.
The next wave in my mental state was denial. There must be a way out! I scrambled to the wall again, resuming my scratching. No fingernails! No way to puncture the surface! But -- but -- below the skin! Yes, bones! Pointed finger bones! A skeleton, more sharp, perhaps, than the hairs in the tunnel!
I suppose my mind had lapsed back into unawareness. I would hate to think that such dementia was actually a conscious decision. But there I was, hands plunged beneath the surface, rubbing for all I was worth. The pain was more than any I had suffered so far, but nothing could stop me -- nothing! My arms began to ache. I suppose the bog had begun to reach the muscle. But then -- then! -- I felt roughness and lifted my hands to see bones showing between the sinew of flesh, blood and muscle.
I began my dogged scratching at the wall. For a time, it was too no avail. I concentrated on rubbing the same spots for a while, trying to dig into the surface from repetition. At last I tried punching my fingers into it. This last effort succeeded! But what poured out of the hole was slimy filth that clung to the remains of my hands.
I would not be dissuaded, however. Pulling myself up with one hand in that hole, I tried again, making a higher hand-hold. Success! For a time I went on like this, dragging myself out of the mire. But then there came a time when my best effort at puncturing the wall failed. My arms were too weak. It seemed that my bones were holding up well under the circumstances, but my skin, my muscles... My internal organs would be soon to go. For, though I had pulled a good portion of myself out of the mire, still the filth clung to me and continued to eat away at every part of my body. Every part but my face.
After a time, I was too weak to hold myself, and slid quietly back into the bog. I strained my eyes in the poor light to look up at the holes I'd made in the wall. All that effort... I'd only punctured the side a half-dozen times. And my hands were all but gone now.
A voice was talking to me, babbling at me. I couldn't make it out at first. With some concentration, though, I began to understand it.
There's no way out. You'll just stand here until your feet melt from underneath you and you sink, sink, sink. And you'll try to keep your mouth shut, but your lips will be worn away and it will all pour down your throat and eat at your insides. And you'll try to close your eyes, but your eyelids will disappear and you will have to watch, watch, watch, as the light fades and your eyes dissolve.
I realized I'd been wading, wandering about in my daze. There were deeper spots; my chin began to burn. I stopped and hovered in indecision. To plunge in and end it as quickly as possible? To hold on as long as possible and let the prophecy in my mind come horribly true?
Whether I wanted it or not, my body would not obey my commands to plunge itself. Perhaps the muscles were destroyed or the nerves melted so they could not send the signals. Either way, I stood still and moved no more.
The pain was gone now. Maybe all the nerves were gone, or maybe my mind had shut down in the part of it that experienced pain. Ever so slowly, I found myself sinking -- my lower lip had begun to sting. My feet were indeed melting from underneath me. Time doggedly wore on. The fluid filled my mouth, ravaged my tongue for a time and poured down my throat. In a last effort to drag myself down, my hands rose out of the bog. Oh, the horror of those glistening, white stalks that had once been fingers. I fought them off in my mind, but they covered my face anyhow, leaving the dreaded slime where I wanted it the least. I pinched my eyes closed. The fluid burned through them slowly, slowly. Dim light broke through. And, as at last my legs gave out, as I began to submerge, I looked up and saw a rope lowering from the tunnel above. His last torture. I watched it with lidless eyes. It lowered -- more slowly than I sank. And then the mire took me and I was no more.
