Lost To Time

2) Home Under The Mountain

The horrible screech of the old, metal door rippled through the air, losing its fight for dominance against the bloody, howling wind. The rusty mechanical system took over for the grey haired man, with strength no human could ever naturally possess, forcing it from its snowy grave, revealing a rickety wooden staircase covered by a dark. wet-looking substance.

With a motion of her aged father's gloved hand, the girl descended into the dark. The staircase squeaked underneath her weight, her hand flailing when it found no handrail to hold. Her foot slipped on the squishy, wet wood, shivering as the ghost, helpless to stop her doom as it hovered around her like a useless shield, attempted to grab her arm. Her heart seemed to freeze mid-beat.

A rough hand gripped her upper arm, saving her from tumbling down the twelve dark steps into the sightless underground. "Careful, pet," he warned, releasing her arm. Shame dug at her as the adrenaline racing through her veins gave enough life to her muscles for balance.

Her father followed once she was safely on the cement ground, standing in the remnant of light from the fierce world above.

The howling wind and biting snow ceased its onslaught as the door slammed closed, locking them in and it out. The dank underground did nothing for the blinding cold that had wrapped itself around her like a second layer of skin and infused itself into her soul. Unsure if she would ever know what the gentle touch of the sun felt like again, she stumbled forward, directed only by the sound of her father's footsteps as the darkness pressed in.

An ember of hope nuzzled itself into her heart, not quite daring to wish the chill of her father's lab would melt the ice clinging to her bones. Ordinarily, the storm would not have bothered her so, since, ordinarily, she was wrapped softly against her father's warm body: a shield of warmth and safety against the cruel, icy world.

With the adrenaline fading, her muscles ached and trudged against every step, sobbing and screaming their wish for her to give. It would be so easy to say those few words she knew he was waiting for:

"I'm tired, Papa," she would mumble in a faint voice, reaching for her father who would respond in kind by crouching, shifting down to match their heights.

"Of course you are, pet," he would soothe, the smile she knew that would frame his lips taunting her in the icy blackness. "You are too young, too weak." His sigh, a gentle puff of warm air, would tickle wisps of hair that clung to her red skin as his words settle in her heart like glass shards. His unspoken words, "You are not good enough," would join the other paper cut wounds as he lifted her up, tucking her safely away in his jacket. His warmth would coddle her tender muscle, a comforting yet mocking blanket, finding her weakness and reminding her of her worthlessness at every one of his smooth rhythmic strides.

Her breath puffed its exhaustion against the moist, icy dark. Her father's steps echoed through the obsidian tunnel, her heart stumbling and fluttering whenever they faded too far away. Her furious muscles groaning as she ran after the echoes until she was near enough to hear his breath.

She hated the dark grace she walked in. Where there is nothing but sightlessness and still, frozen air. We are lucky here, dead and unable to feel the chill. Here we have no need for sight or warmth, but for her... Down here there is nothing. Down here, under the ground, where the sun and warmth refuse to dare, where all light and air is manufactured, nothing she knows exists. Her father had taught her how to use the stars as a map and the winds as a guide, but no directions dare these tunnels. No life could find a way to survive in such dark.

To her, nothing lived, nothing died: nothing is all there is.

She could not decide if the wet tomb devoid of all light and warmth was equal to or worse than the cruel, blowing death inflicting its yearly havoc above, where the light could reach: where the light could come and burn it all away. There may be no frozen wind, blowing and whipping welts into her skin, but this dark had begun to twist its way down her throat as if wishing to steal what it could never possess: life.