Bottle In The Basement

II

Now beginning to feel his confidence turn traitor, he reached out his arm to insert the key into the lock and noticed that for the first time since the accident, he was violently shaking.

He brushed off the shock as he continued fumbling with the key in the lock, trying to get a click. Finally the click came and the door emitted a boisterous creak as the heavy oak swung out towards him.

Now looking down the splintered wooden steps, Jimmy found that he'd be facing more than just his fear of alcohol on his visit to the cellar. With very little light and creaks with every step, Jimmy found that he was much more afraid than he had anticipated.

He began walking down the rickety splintered stairs slowly at first then quicker, as if taking too long might cause a stair to fall in.

Jimmy made a mental note that he had no reason to make a reappearance in the basement and continued his decent into overwhelming darkness.

Darkness. One of his least favorite words, right after alcohol of course. Cally had hated darkness just as much as him if not more.

He scolded himself; his therapist had reminded him enough that thinking too much about what had happened was never a good thing. The last thing he needed was another mental breakdown, especially on the night of the big party. He had pestered his dad enough with lingering around so long; he didn't need to wreck his retirement celebration as well.

His father had always been an understanding man, but needless to say, his visit was much unexpected and his condition for the longest time was very poor. But slowly Jimmy had worked his way back up the big ladder of life, rebuilding it one rung at a time. His father of course trusted him. He had trusted him with the key to the wine cellar for instance, all to himself in the big empty house.

If his father were to provide him with all that, then the least he could do was carry out the single favor he had asked of him, right? It's not like that one favor could ever do much harm, right? Wrong. By the end of the night, Jimmy Henson would have more than one reason to hate his father's old, worn, wine cellar.

It wasn't until Jim had reached the last step, submerging into complete darkness, that he began to hear that newly familiar creaking sound again. He turned around just in time to see that heavy wooden oak door creep back into the position that it spent so much time in.

He watched it helplessly as it slipped closed, leaving no light except for a small crack lining the bottom of the door. He was trapped.