Novel Part 4

In truth, nothing had changed. The silence that existed was still there, waiting patiently within the walls of my hollow prison. The familiar atmosphere of emptiness returned, and I was left with a sense of lonesomeness that I had grown accustomed to.

Even in the total darkness, I was able to find the plate and cup which contained my allowance of food, just recently renewed. The water was ice cold, a shock to my lips. I realized how thirsty I was, but I forced myself to sip it slowly. I sat down, crossed my legs, and began to think again.

In the morning, the water would never be cold. I suspect that through the night and early morning it would warm up slightly, until my dry tongue tasted its lukewarm contents when I finally awoke.

I did not know what this meant, only that whoever brought my water, collected it from an icy source. Perhaps my dungeon was situated in a cold climate, as cold water would be more easily accessible, and if it was somehow a scarcity I doubt they would waste it on me.

I imagine that they gather the water from some fresh mountain stream, a cold and clear liquid that creates soft sounds as it trickles downhill. A massive glacier, slowly melting, produces a seemingly endless flow of cold water, which is then brought to me here in a miserable cup for me to sip on. From atop a mountain, wild and free, my water is reduced to the restrictiveness of my surrounding prison. It will never return to that snowy peak, shivering in the cold winter breeze.

The weather outside, perceivable only through the high window, seemingly has little or no effect on my indoor bondage. I am sometimes in a state of being slightly cold, more so during the night, thanks to the bitterness of the walls. But I had become indifferent to this unpleasantness; indeed, I had more pressing issues circulating within my mind that extended far beyond the overall climate of my dungeon. Still, it was something of note, if it might one day contribute to the answer of a more important question; one which continually haunts me or one which might arise.

Thinking back to my recent encounter, I had had no reason to be afraid, yet I distinctly remember my hands quivering. The shadow that entered would have passed by me while I slept countless times, and each time it could have killed me again and again, and I would have lain there lifeless, until the very walls of my eternal cage crumbled into specks of dust. But instead of sending me to my inevitable death, the shadow had sustained my wretched life, through the soft grain and moisture of the bread and water. For this reason, I should be oddly thankful, that I am not riddled with the pangs of starvation, or the torture of thirst. It is strange that I can find a small meaning of comfort within a closet of hardship.

That night, I did not feel the drowsiness return as it often does during the night. My repose had been interrupted by a short event that had deemed my night relatively eventful. Its unfolding revisited my mind many times, yet because of its abruptness, I could not gather anything beyond conjecture. Simply, someone had entered, replenished my food ration, and left.

I waited patiently for the darkness to fade, and the light to appear, heralding a new day that would perhaps be different from all the others. Ah, all the others.