#78 Labyrinth

by Benjamin Ong

How long had it been?

Days. Months, maybe. Years, even.

She didn’t know. Time was never a constant, especially not here, shifting, fluid, changing, refusing to stay in one form, as if mocking her with great malicious spite.

Spite, yes. The great, all-enveloping full emptiness that was Darkness gathered its spite and laughed cruelly at her. No constant, no frame of reference, but the spite.

She held up the lamp.

Strange.

How long had it been since she last added oil?

Too long, perhaps and yet not long enough for it to run dry. But it never did.

The flickering light cast shimmering shadows upon the ground ahead and revealed a wall.

A wall. There had not been a wall when she looked. Now there was. Deep in the core of her spine, was a treacherous tremor and she knew the Dark was laughing at her.

A hand raised against the wall, she slowly trudged down, using the cold and smooth wall as a crutch. A strange joy welled up in her heart; far too long since she had something solid to rely upon.

The oppressive Darkness kept pushing in on her, continually repulsed by the feeble glow of her lantern. A frosty malevolence that kept her on her toes, cold frostbitten toes ready to drop, the Darkness never stopped its insidious whispers.

There was no wall.

She tripped, face against the floor and the lantern clattered against the floor. She watched the candlelight extinguish.

Then the Darkness closed in.