us deeper underground through a maze of hallways and twisting corridors until we reached the dungeons. It was dark down here. Dark and damp, with the pungent aroma of sewage and ripe body odor. Strange whispers and growls and inhuman cries echoed down the stone corridors.
We passed rows of barred doors and windows. All were dark, but sometimes I caught the glint of eyes, torchlight refracting in the silvery, slit-like pupils. A black, skeletal hand with claw-like black nails gripped the bars of another cell. I couldn't see the face that belonged to it, nor did I want to. It made some strange clicking sound in its throat as we passed, and I was suddenly thankful for the bars and our half-giant escort.
A blast of sound, like a symphony of train horns, blared down our corridor with so much force, it came with a gust of hot air that singed my nasal passages. The sound was followed by shouts and yells that sounded human, though I couldn't be sure. The half-giants didn't seem concerned, merely annoyed, but I found it unnerving. The size of a creature making a sound that powerful—well, it made me wonder how in the world they got it down here.
We finally reached our intended cells. Apparently, the maze of corridors we'd just walked through housing creatures from Pan's Labyrinth was considered the low security section. Our cells were in the floor, like an oubliette, with small metal grille hatches for entry. Or maybe they were keeping us in the sewers. I guessed I'd find out soon enough.
One of the half-giants unlocked a grille then shoved Vera inside. I listened for her landing, which was farther down than I'd hoped. When it was my turn, I braced myself for impact. The hard floor jarred my ankles and knees and I fell forward, catching myself with my bad arm. I clenched my teeth and groaned in pain as the grille above closed and locked over my head. My world turned black, except for the golden grid of flickering light above.
It took a bit for my eyes to adjust, but once they did, I saw that my cell was more like a burial chamber. It wasn't much larger than a casket, perfectly rectangular and carved out of the hill. There was a dark pile of something in one corner that smelled sour and rotten, but the cell was otherwise empty. I found the cleanest segment of flooring I could and sat, leaned against the wall, and proceeded to stare at nothing while cradling my left arm. On occasion, I heard a distant cry, but for the most part, this area of the dungeon was quiet. Alex and Vera were just on the other side of these walls—if only I could talk to them, maybe work out some kind of plan, but instead I was left with only my thoughts for company.
And my thoughts were not welcome company.
I'd read books about being trapped in dungeons. Of course, it's nothing like experiencing it first hand. Like in the Count of Monte Cristo when Edmond Dantes was trapped in the Chateau d'If for six whole years . But that was a novel. Not once did I believe Alexander Dumas would actually leave him there to die. If he had, there wouldn't have been a story. When you're reading, you can pretty much always guarantee that the author isn't going to kill off the main character (unless you're Alfred Hitchcock), so if the main character ends up in a rat-infested, rank and fetid dungeon, the main character is probably going to get out somehow.
The problem with real life, however, is that you're not a main character. You may think you are one, but once you step out into the world—or worlds, as mine would have it—you realize it's more likely you've been cast as that negligible "jogger girl with brown hair." You're nothing but a clip on the big screen, probably without speaking parts and completely inconsequential to the actual plot. The world moves as it has always done—without you—and it doesn't care if you live or die. The sun rises and the sun sets without your help, and your big ideas of change and reformation seem idealistic at most. If the world
We passed rows of barred doors and windows. All were dark, but sometimes I caught the glint of eyes, torchlight refracting in the silvery, slit-like pupils. A black, skeletal hand with claw-like black nails gripped the bars of another cell. I couldn't see the face that belonged to it, nor did I want to. It made some strange clicking sound in its throat as we passed, and I was suddenly thankful for the bars and our half-giant escort.
A blast of sound, like a symphony of train horns, blared down our corridor with so much force, it came with a gust of hot air that singed my nasal passages. The sound was followed by shouts and yells that sounded human, though I couldn't be sure. The half-giants didn't seem concerned, merely annoyed, but I found it unnerving. The size of a creature making a sound that powerful—well, it made me wonder how in the world they got it down here.
We finally reached our intended cells. Apparently, the maze of corridors we'd just walked through housing creatures from Pan's Labyrinth was considered the low security section. Our cells were in the floor, like an oubliette, with small metal grille hatches for entry. Or maybe they were keeping us in the sewers. I guessed I'd find out soon enough.
One of the half-giants unlocked a grille then shoved Vera inside. I listened for her landing, which was farther down than I'd hoped. When it was my turn, I braced myself for impact. The hard floor jarred my ankles and knees and I fell forward, catching myself with my bad arm. I clenched my teeth and groaned in pain as the grille above closed and locked over my head. My world turned black, except for the golden grid of flickering light above.
It took a bit for my eyes to adjust, but once they did, I saw that my cell was more like a burial chamber. It wasn't much larger than a casket, perfectly rectangular and carved out of the hill. There was a dark pile of something in one corner that smelled sour and rotten, but the cell was otherwise empty. I found the cleanest segment of flooring I could and sat, leaned against the wall, and proceeded to stare at nothing while cradling my left arm. On occasion, I heard a distant cry, but for the most part, this area of the dungeon was quiet. Alex and Vera were just on the other side of these walls—if only I could talk to them, maybe work out some kind of plan, but instead I was left with only my thoughts for company.
And my thoughts were not welcome company.
I'd read books about being trapped in dungeons. Of course, it's nothing like experiencing it first hand. Like in the Count of Monte Cristo when Edmond Dantes was trapped in the Chateau d'If for six whole years . But that was a novel. Not once did I believe Alexander Dumas would actually leave him there to die. If he had, there wouldn't have been a story. When you're reading, you can pretty much always guarantee that the author isn't going to kill off the main character (unless you're Alfred Hitchcock), so if the main character ends up in a rat-infested, rank and fetid dungeon, the main character is probably going to get out somehow.
The problem with real life, however, is that you're not a main character. You may think you are one, but once you step out into the world—or worlds, as mine would have it—you realize it's more likely you've been cast as that negligible "jogger girl with brown hair." You're nothing but a clip on the big screen, probably without speaking parts and completely inconsequential to the actual plot. The world moves as it has always done—without you—and it doesn't care if you live or die. The sun rises and the sun sets without your help, and your big ideas of change and reformation seem idealistic at most. If the world
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