Dirty water dripped on my head from a moldy wooden basement beam. Light spilled into the room from the cracks in the ceiling. I was trapped in a deep stone hole. My wrist was clasped with a 10 centimeter iron cuff, it rubbed the skin underneath into a blistery rot. I pulled against in, a 3 meter rusty chain that was bolted into solid rock. Every time I woke up, in the hideout a man sat across from me. He looked angry, he wore ratty clothes, and smell like clean water and soap had not hit his body for months. I waved my hands at him, he would mock my gestures. I asked when he would let me out of this prison. He never answered.
I found a loose stone in the floor. I pushed away the gray dust that shrouded it. I cracked and broke my fingernails clawing at the buried stone. When I finally uprooted the rock, warm red blood fell from my fingers into the dry dust. There was a note, handwritten in ink. It was on a cut piece of soft tan leather. It simply read…
I sat in silence, in my own pile of deification and filth. I was too proud, and too embarrassed, to try. I was hungry, and ashamed. I saw the filthy man return. He sat there in silence looking at me. I hated him. I finally broke. I looked up to the ceiling, I said, “I don’t know who you are, but I found your note, would you be willing to help me?”
A basement light came on. I saw the stone room had a large archway, with a giant mirror beside it. The keys to my chains hung from a rusted nail on the wall.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert