When she awoke she faced darkness, deeper, and "more infinite than night. Perpetual black, stilted and belligerent, sulked beyond the door frame. As she brought her hand to her head she tried to soothe the ache that settled there, but to no avail.
"Why does it hurt?" "She asked of no one but herself.
"I imagine it will for some time."
Startled, her head turned in the direction of the voice.
A man.
He sat in the most narrow corner of the uneven room. A book with no title propped, by apathetic hands, on his knees. His disheveled brown hair fell in front of his eyes, throwing her into obscurity.
"It usually hurts for a while. You can never really tell for how long, though." "Why not?"
She tilted her head on its side, puzzled. He closed the book, indifferent to loosing his place, and waved his arms above his head, indicating the room for emphasis.
"No time. No seasons. How can we note the time or day when neither exist? We've been robbed."
"Robbed?"
"That's how I like to think of it."
"How was this done?" "I don't know." His tone tinged with condescension. He opened the book once more, and resumed reading at an entirely different page from where he began. She stood, and paced about the room. It resembles a hotel room, she thought. A hunting lodge, maybe. Four white walls, wood panel trimming the edges. One solitary table, stained oak, stood by the reading man. A single, red lamp sat atop the table, and bled sparse light onto the page that held his attention. He sat on the only chair, and read the only book. He wore the only clothes he had, the clothes he had fallen asleep in. Her eyes traced the wall, and searched for a window, or an exit of some kind. She turned to regard the wall that faced her.
A doorway.
Not an unusual doorway; normal in every aspect of it's construction. What lay beyond the threshold gave the doorway its threatening quality. There were no hinges, and no door, just the doorway itself. An exit. A wound in the pure white wall.
"Where does that lead?" She pointed to the door.
Once more he set his book down, a sigh of frustration hissed past his lips.
"I don't know. I tried leaving once, but, honestly, I was too frightened to cross the threshold."
"Really?" She squinted at the door, challenging it. Making sure her former scrutiny held true; that there really were no breaks or chasms in the darkness. No light to retrieve familiarity. Just an abundance of darkness. A curtain made of ink.
"Why are we here?" She asked.
Again he sighed, and put down the book. "I don't know."
"Your answer to everything."
"The only answer I know."
"Who are you?" Her face titled on its side again, this time she studied him as she had the darkness.
"I can't recall."
"Where did you come from?"
"I awoke here. Much the same as you."
" You don't remember from where you started?"
He picked the book up once more, and held it in front of his face to defend his ears from her questions. Mumbling past the book cover, he replied, "I can't recall that, either."
"I can. I'm from Missouri, Saint Louis originally. I was studying biology in Germany. A large university in Stuttgart."
"How unfortunate." He mumbled.
"No, it was wonderful."
"I can't imagine it was so wonderful. Why, then, would you wake up here?" Her hands balled into fists which she ground into the carpeted floor beneath her, an attempt to punch a hole into it. An attempt at creating another exit. "What's out there?" She whispered, a conscious attempt at avoiding annoyance. He set down the book, this time a look of curiosity masked his face.
"I don't know. All I see is darkness."
"And you're not curious? It's killing me to know. The uncertainty is consuming."
"Then stop thinking about it. I'd never leave."
"Why not?" She seemed angry, disappointed even, at his response.
"What's there for me? I can't imagine anything. It's just dark, and darkness is uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. I can't stand looking at it. I wish we had a door to cover it up."
"But you don't even know what's out there. There could be oceans of things you'd never see, just because you ignore them."
"Look," he leaned forward, angered by her outburst of insolence, "I can't think of any reason why I'd want to do that. I'm fine here. It would be like taking a second bite out of the apple. What if I step out, and then I'm not welcome back in? I couldn't live in that dark kind of uncertainty. I won't be thrown out again."
"Again?"
He swiveled his head, motioning to the walls.
"Oh..." She whispered, then fell silent.
"This is utterly maddening!" She cried, and paced the length of the room. Her head felt as if a swarm of locusts were trapped inside of it, singing and biting for a way out.
"I cant stand to think of what I might be absent from."
"Then go. I won't stop you."
"And you're too frightened to step over the threshold?"
"Correct." He brought the book back up, blocking her from his sight once more.
"I'm loosing my grip." She spat. "I can even tell how long I've been here. Days? Years?"
He set the book down again. "Has your head stopped hurting?" He asked. "Yes." "A little over a month, then."
Casually, he resumed reading.
"Well," she murmured, "I'm leaving. Still don't care to join?"
"Not at all." He seemed to crumpled, like the weathered garments he wore, when he replied. He slouched against the back of his chair, gripping the book by both ends in horror.
"If I find something better beyond the door I'll come back for you." She said. "I appreciate that. But I won't wait."
She shrugged, then approached the door, strolling at a casual pace to mask her anxiety. As she arrived at the threshold she stopped. "Bye." She whispered over her shoulder.
"Good-bye." He whispered back.
She allowed one foot to linger over the threshold, suspended in the air. A sigh escaped her before she forced her foot across the door frame. When her foot found purchase on solid ground she started, and stumbled forward, as if climbing a long stair case blindfolded. She reached both hands out, fingers splayed, and probed them into the dark, apprehension guiding her movements. The sounds of moaning issued through the darkness, shrill and impetuous. Surprised, she jumped back just as the arms reached for her. Longer than the lankiest human limb the arms stretched towards her from the dark. The arms possessed no hands, and no fingers. A countless assembly of human-like tendrils pawed and batted at the air, they rolled and slithered on the carpeted floor, like apricot colored tongue. As they searched, blindly, for purchase on one of her limbs, they stretched past the door frame, bringing forward their full body, all sinews and elbow joints, into the room. She landed on her back, sprawled against the carpet floor, and clawed at the wall behind her for refuge. She saw him, hidden behind his book in the corner.
"Help me!" She screamed, accusingly.
He peered, childishly, from behind his book. "I told you not to go."
With her attention diverted, one of the arms managed a hold on her ankle. It wound itself around the length of her leg, a flesh coil, and snared her in its fingerless grip. The throng of arms slowly dragged themselves backwards, the arm that held her trailed behind with the extra weight. Once more the darkness returned, undisturbed, and unbroken. A charcoal universe without boundaries.
He turned back to his book, and mumbled to himself with quivering lips, "I wish we had a door to cover up the darkness. It makes me uncomfortable just looking at it."

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