The Feeling of Alone

by fragmentedspeech

The strange feeling had overcome me in this house as soon as I step on to its screaming rotted floor boards and all the windows stare at me and the curtains sway in my direction as the wind pushes me inside unwillingly. “Please come in” said the doorknob. “Please come in” said the wall to my right. “Please come in” said the wall to my left. I step in one more step. The basement pulls me into its uninhabited dominion. I hover over the floorboards in silence as the basement door knob whispers into my ear an indistinguishable language, the language of inanimacy, the language of the old and the forgotten, the language of the lost and once used, but used no more, ancient artifacts covered in mold longing to be touched and felt. The wind drops me off gently “Last stop, basement door!” the wind whispers.

I reach for the dented, gilded knob jutting from the petrified door. My flesh touches its freezing exoskeleton, so cold it feels wet. My hands become clammy as I turn the knob and hear the rusted locking mechanism struggle slowly to retract the small bolt previously jammed into the ancient door frame, revealing the black faded rectangle that leads to a lifeless existence of concrete and mold.

The smell hit my face like a brick wall of must emanating waves of stench as I come to a full wretch and quickly regain my fortitude. I reach for the switch and give myself a mental slap across the face. I grab my torch and flick it on. Its metallic and wet as the doorknob is. I take a historically exaggerated step into the stone age as I descended my left foot onto the soggy step. The wooden plank screams to me in pain. I shine my light down the steps to see their white paint chipping after hundreds of thousands of years of use. I sway my light around to the concrete wall at the bottom of the stairs. As I do so it appears as small insects are making an effort to stay out of the beam. Scurrying away as soon as I am near; never to catch a true glimpse of what they are but only the hints of antennas and legs. I am starved of leg motion and run down the stairs as they scream angrily.

There is something about basements.

This darkness contained life and a disturbing amount of it. I shine on webs and spiders emerge from foggy silk and moths are drained as is the way of life. The cave crickets latch to the walls and floors and the silverfish crawl around the small rectangular windows. The only light in this molded environment. A small thick beam of rectangular white radiation shoots from a slot near the joists. The tiny dust particles create a translucent star field for the space moths that adventure through this point in the emptiness. I could feel the darkness on my flesh as if I were in my natural form as a skeleton with translucent tendons and muscle. I feel like melting into this cold floor to become one with the bugs around me. I want to sink into the boiler room and burn like the coals that create heat. I would love to be transferred into pure energy used to let some guy somewhere microwave a burrito. I want to be a tiny microwave shooting from a magnetron into your refried beans and vibrate the molecules of water and create heat from the friction to allow you to eat me so I can travel down through your throat like water and into your belly and hang there for a little while.

Please.

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