The Dungeon


My wrists are chained to a tired stonewall that has felt too many prisoners suffering against it. Tangled black hair hangs around my face like curtains, framing the windows into my weakened soul. I am too tired to push it away. There is nothing here to see but endless darkness lit by the white bones of grinning skeletons. Fresh blood drips onto the floor before me, concealing the dried blood already staining the floor. The scent tinges the air, but I do not care.

After everything I have been through, I am still breathing.
Only just.

Long ago, I stopped screaming. Since I know no one would ever look for me here, no one would ever save me, there is no reason to scream. The pain has faded into dull ache, for my nerves have become numb over time. I have learned to relish my sorrow, to embrace the darkness that surrounds me. Initially I tried to wake myself up, to escape the agony of imprisonment in darkness. Then, I realized it was not a dream.

Awaken me inside, I pleaded into the darkness.
The darkness never replied because it was already inside of me, smothering me.

Glancing at the sliver of silver liquid moonlight where my bloody tears fall, I notice something. The barren dirt floors I kneel trapped upon are no longer barren of life other than me. A single black rose has grown here while I have been preoccupied with eternal torment. Something hauntingly beautiful created from tears of suffering and blood of the breathing dead.