The soft sounds of the pebble scraping against the wall echoes in the tunnel. I've figured out how to hold the pebble between my palms. I am writing my requiem. There are marks here already, I can feel them when I rub my face against the wall. I can't read them. But I try to remember them anyway. Someone has to remember them; the last screams, the last tears. Soon I'll be there too. A thin line in the stone, forgotten but ever present. Because what goes down, never leaves.
It's not so dark anymore. Not like it was when my lantern flickered and died. The darkness ate me up then, but I think it has spit me out again. I can almost make out the walls. Or perhaps that is just a memory of the last thing I saw before I was swallowed. I don't know, I don't know anything anymore. Only the cold and the dark, the silence. Even the faint sounds I heard before have stopped. I wonder if that is because I have gotten off track completely, got so lost in the maze that I am only a vague shape in the back of someone's mind, someone still up there. Or maybe I am truly alone now. I don't know. It doesn't matter.
I'll be here always. Even when my flesh has melted into the stone, I'll be here. A mark on the wall, a sigh in the unmoving air. I know this. I've heard the others still here, felt their marks. The feeble tries to leave at least a little left behind. If nothing more than a scratch and a pile of rotting cloth.
What would it be like to see the sun again? Feel it. My eyes wouldn't work properly if I got out. The sun would sure blind me, like it did with the ones that got out before. They screamed at the sun. Cried at the night. I wonder if they would have stayed down here, if they had known what it would be like. To be out again. I bet even the softest whisper of wind would hurt, the skin goes so brittle here in the cold. Breaks for nothing.
I wonder if the night ever ends, when you're out. If the darkness ever brightens. No. It doesn't. Ever. It's so quiet here, at the bottom. My breaths are rasping, I can almost hear my own heartbeats. Slow, so slow. Like a lizard. Slow and unmoving. Waiting for the sun to come up and make my blood flow again. I've made my mark. I am not to be anymore. Soon.
My last dawn. I remember the sun warming my back. The pink clouds over the mountain. The last time I was warm. Time runs cold down here in the dark. It never begins and it never ends. Spread on the tunnel floor there are little lumps, short moments in time, already gone, forgotten. I will have to remember for them, the ones that come after me. There will be more. One at the time, one day in between. Slowly. Blindly. Crawling along the walls, reading with bleeding hands. But I am here. I will tell them. I will remember. They will remember, know my name. I whisper it into the darkness, leaves it floating just above me, the air holding it in its clammy hands. It doesn't matter if I close my eyes or not. But now I can rest. I can wait. Here, where the night never ends. In the cold, in the dark.
And that's a wrap, people!