Considering the large time allotment that rests upon my mind, I suppose Icould explain the predicament that one can get themselves into with a single encounter. Such a tale, an incubus on the tongue, can hardly be expressed by the words of a mentally stable individual.I lie here, shaking, wondering when the tale will even end. My only escape from my own gruesome locality is in the brief sojourns of slumber. Why do I feel that I am still sane? Perhaps I lost that sanity when I enteredthis god-forsaken dungeon. My fascination with medieval castles led me to visit this decrepit old stone keep. Why would the tenant wish harm upon a lowly inquirer? He politely, almost too politely, invited me in to look around. Why, when he mentioned the dank, gloomy inner chamber, would I have soeagerly accepted a showing of it? In my complete focus on the details of the dark room, I had not even noticedthe wide gap in the ground. The dirt floor, evacuated by means of a shovel, was parted and marked by a deep pit. My small lantern went out - ‘Itsperfectly safe’ I assumed to myself, too ignorant to consider the dangers. Nay, I am too dexterous to fall into a pit from my own steps. Rather, I wasstruck in the head by a large blunt object. In an erratic pattern, my skull wascontacted too many times to count. My fears were rising to the blows like a soldier’s courage to the bugle call. I couldn’t move, nevertheless fight back. I’m falling from the sky without a cloud to catch me. It seems an eternity; those seconds that my mind, dulled by the blows of mine assailant, can recognize. I must have entered that moment of clarity, that point at which your mind realizes that, since you are falling, you are surely going to land, fore at this time my muscles tighten and my arms flail helplessly. I hear - I feel - the sickening thud as I contact the ground. One cannot comprehend the thoughts that pass when you hear the breaking of one’s own bone. My pant leg, around the calf, is hindered; stuck when pulled or jingled. The bone pierced both flesh and denim. Upon this realization, all turns black; I hear little more than my own heart beating and my own voice moaning. I awake from my horror-induced slumber only to be startled by the small light beaming in through the pit opening. Briefly spying the silhouette of the tenant, I try to call. My voice, scratchy and parched, can only supply a brief squeak before all is quiet once-again. During my attempt to prop myself up against the wall, I realize that I have been derobed. My vulnerable, nude body lies in this deep grave. My eyes are adjusting to the shallow light which enters my crypt. Peering around the small cavity, I observe crude masonry forming the the walls. Within some stones are chains. Following the chains, my eyes are led to a shadowed corner. Curled up and lying on its side is a sickly colored body. In the position of a small child, frightened and distressed, the body neither shakes nor makes a sound. I begin to drag myself over to this person, my only companion in this dank place of death. The pain from my fractured calf intensifies; dried blood cracking and pulling on itself as the surrounding muscles attempt to contract. I can reach this person, wake them up, perhaps help them. As the distance between our bodies decreases, I see the malnourished figure more clearly. Her skin is a sickly green, glowing in the faint light. This disgusting mass of carrion has attracted hoards of parasitic bugs. In my futile hope of finding her alive, I reach out my hand and pull, gently, on her shoulder. The dry, plastic-like flesh tears off into my hand, exposing the bone. In my suspense and focus on the situation, I failed to recognize the sickly odor emitted from the cadaver and its aging excretions. Revulsion overwhelms my mind. I sit and wretch, praying that I do not regurgitate anything vile that will further permeate the already repulsive chamber. My body, and what seems like the entire pit, is splattered with vomit. The stank of decayed flesh, lying in feces, does not cease to nauseate me as I can do nothing but produce dry heaves for several minutes. What malicious intents brought this situation down upon me? For the first time during this sojourn into my own personal hell do I consider the circumstances. I lay here, pondering what to do. The small chamber leaves little room for movement. I hear the creak of a door and see the silhouette of the man again. A few brief flashes erupt from the opening, leaving spots in my vision. A small, flat square falls onto the floor to my right, dropped from above. After waiting for my yes to readjust, I retrieve the object and observe it. It is a polaroid of me- lying in the pit looking up. I see myself sitting down there, wallowing in my own filth and fluids. He is documenting me. A mixture of terror and anger takes over my mind. With much restraint I contain my rage, which then turns to desperation. No doubt, my future lies before me in the form of the decaying corpse in the corner. The craven acts of a madman, entertained only by others suffering of others, has led me to this place. In reality it has been only days. In my mind it has been months. My body cannot take much more of this torture. The only distinct events of the day are the regular arrival of the man followed by a few quick flashes of light. He has not dropped four photographs. I gaze upon my own body in the photographs, slowly decaying in the filth that it supplied. How I wish there was something to eat. Brief thoughts of the tender flesh that could be removed from my companion cross my mind. I awake to a soft thud on the ground next to me. I reach out to grasp the object. I realize that it is a rat, possibly lying still due to shock from the force of the fall. I would continue to think the rat to be living had I not looked into its face. The eyes, the part of something’s face that expresses understanding and awareness, have been removed. I stare into the face of something as helpless and stiff as my companion in the pit. Hunger is an overwhelming force when one is not prepared for it. At this point, anything recently living looks good to consume. I tear at the fur and thin underbelly of the rat, exposing its inners. Tearful, dirty, and desperate, I bite into my meal. Blood has run down my arms and trickles down my chin. More days pass by. The flashes of the camera, the rats, and even defecation becomes routine. I remain slumped in my hole, swimming in the foul matter that I create. Everything on my body aches from lack of use. My voice, dormant for days, is dry and inaudible. I find no way to release emotion. I am alone and nothing can understand me. No one can hear me. I continue to lay here, thinking of what more to tell you. My vile environment causes a constant barrage of nausea. I have little left to ponder as I lay in my dirty tomb. If the enjoyment of my tormentor is proportional to the suffering I now live in, then he must be the happiest man in the world. The sadistic workings of a madman, gone unchecked through the years, now haunt another individual. Who knows how long it will be before this psychotic demon of a man entraps yet another person. With little left to consider, I bid you farewell, as I return to the sanctity behind the wall of sleep **End*** by, Corey
