Under the Rug

Under The Rug

Two weeks passed and it happened again. Eyes shoot open to darkness, flounder helplessly, then sink into focus. Evan’s heart flutters frantically with a familiar panic. His eyes widen, and he stumbles back. He holds his arms out to steady himself, stares forwards.

There’s a mirror across from him, but no reflection. Its surface seems to ripple, worried by thousands of invisible fingers.

Come closer, it whispers, tiny voices weaving together in a syrupy hymn. He stares at it, and his fear slackens. The tension runs out of his muscles, and he takes a deep breath.

Something changes and his muscles tense. In the breath before he can move thousands of writhing hands surge forwards, and drag him forwards into endless mercury.

~

There is a maze in his mind, and in the center is the Beast. Its steps make the ground shake, thick breath blocking out the sun in clouds of red mist that leaks down the sky; sinking through the walls until all the hedges are sticky-red with blood. The air smells sick with vomit and death and pus. The ground in littered with patches of thick muck. There are only two here, the Beast, and the boy.

The Beast has no name.

Here he is not child, student, or friend. Here he is prey, fear and adrenaline, the last labored gasp against straining muscle yearning to escape, the pained sigh escaping dead lips. He hides in the deepest corners of the maze, burying himself in layers of wet red leaves and gnarled branches Long thorns shred his ragged clothes and cut thin ribbons into his skin.

He curls up to sleep when he can, sometimes against yellowed dying brush or crumbling stone. He huddles, covered in his own shit and sweat and vomit, dried blood scraping off countless small cuts onto the walls. He plays games sometimes, things he can vaguely remember his mother whispering to him, as if secret, on nights when he couldn’t fall asleep. He can’t find sheep, so he whispers his secret new game. He counts illusory reminiscence that scatter like brittle smoke against his thoughts, stringing them together with make-believe numbers from a thousand dying tongues as he tries to force sleep.

There is a maze in his mind, and it is rotting.

~

On some days, he remembers that he is looking for something. He plays with this thought, running through the chalky walls of the maze; flirting with the edges of a dark forest he knows the beast prowls. Sometimes he likes remembering, but these flashes draw the beast, lighting flares that illuminate the murals on the wall. There a man with waxen wings falls from the sun while the Beast devours his moments, engulfing them in a gluttonous thick blackness of its mouth.

From his life before this place has one image, a blonde fuzzy recollection of a blonde woman’s toothy smile, but he remembers feeling much more. He remembers a burning so intense it makes him want to strip the flesh from his skin; he remembers a soft, cold feeling of numb contentedness. He remembers the warmth of the sun, the rich earthy smell of cut grass, and soft sighs of the midnight tides. He has many memories, but mostly remembers the pain.

The Beast feeds on his memories, and he’s more than happy to give it what he can.

~

In the center of the maze is a house of mirrors. A lone monument to stable times, lying suspiciously untouched by the beast. The walls were clean, white entry way filled with the soft hum of an air conditioner, washed out with pale fluorescent lights. His dirty feet leave rusty footprints on the cool white tile, drawn in by some irresistible force.

The house is empty, metal brackets lying abandoned on black walls, mirrors long shattered and removed. The long hallway is broken up into stuffy box rooms without doors. The air was thick with condensation. He could feel the Beast behind him, the familiar smell of fire and mercury mingling with humid air of the forgotten hall. It waits, and does nothing.

Something was wrong.

As he entered the last room he pushed aside his doubts. Growing directly out of the linoleum floor with its roots melding seamlessly into the soft plastic linoleum was a giant apple tree. Its fruit was bright red, white flesh crisp with sweet juice.

Hypnotized, he walked towards it. Red eyes follow his footsteps as hot breath shoots down his neck. It quickens in anticipation. Giant eyes glow red behind him.

He reaches out.

Picks an apple.

Bites.