Life in a Dungeon

12/07/2008

McGrif eyed his captors as they patrolled the perimeter of his iron-barred cell, taking notice of how they leered at him suspiciously as they passed by. Although the guards had given him fair treatment for the most part, it was clear that they regarded him with disdain judging by the scowls that masked their faces whenever near him. Their worn leather sandals scoffed against the unswept floor, causing small dust-clouds to sprout up from under they heels.

            “Hey! Rock-head!” one of them yelled, bits of saliva jettisoning from his mouth as he spoke. Shift glanced up at the remark in time to be struck by a much larger cloud of pebbles and sand which had been swiftly kicked in his direction, and though he attempted to shield himself against it by raising his thick arms in defense, the flying particles were too quick. Fortunately he closed his eyes quickly enough as to not have them filled with sand, but his hair, clothing, and skin were now coated with it. “Happy now, eh?” the guard added in a slow voice, emphasizing his ridiculous drawl.

Since he hated the man, who in most cases was apt to deal punishments for no apparent reason, McGrif refrained from responding, but the dry sand, which now clogged his mouth, made it impossible to speak anyway. He attempted to spit the sand out to no avail, as it had absorbed all traces of moisture in his mouth. After trying several times to remove the sand, the guard stepped back and looked directly at him. “Spitting in your cell are we?” he said, looking curiously frustrated. “That’s against protocol. You should know that by now!” McGrif knew, but he didn’t care. All his life he’d been living in these kind of conditions, and tonight he’d do something about it.

The prison guard pulled a ring of clinking keys from his belt and began to unlock the iron door. Shift didn’t rise to his feet just yet, for he knew that it was better to catch the scrawny man by surprise. After the man had locked the creaking iron door, McGrif prepared himself. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, and it was loud enough to make him worry if the guard could hear it. As the guard turned around, McGrif tensed his muscles, getting ready to leap at the man when the opportunity presented itself.

“Oh bother,” said the guard suddenly, “how forgetful of me!” He made a whipping motion with his empty right hand, indicating that he’d completely forgotten to retrieve the torturous implement. “Well you’ll have to excuse me, kind Neanderthal. I seem to have forgotten my friend. I shall be back momentarily. Try not to make much more of a mess around here, would you?” He then turned to leave, except this time, he did not lock the door…

            McGrif’s mind raced. He could either bolt away at this very moment and risk being hunted down by the guard, along with anyone else he’d alert, or play it safe and wait for him to return, whereupon he’d attempt to incapacitate the man, which would surely grant him a safer escape. His hands were bound by rope, though he’d managed to loosen it enough to allow his hands free movement just recently, which is why his wrists were blistery and red. He’d nearly rubbed them raw to free the bounds, but it had been worth it. Before further consideration about his escape plan could take place, the guard swiftly returned, bringing with him the dreaded whip which he so dearly adored.

            “Stand, prisoner!” he demanded, though his high pitched squeal of a voice evoked loathing instead of obedience. McGrif complied by rising slowly, again working his mind into fighting mode. “Could you go any slower…” said the guard in exasperation. That had done it. The fury rose now, completely uninhibited. McGrif felt his heart thud wildly, his eyeballs dilating with rage. As this was happening the guard spoke one last time, “Come on now, just a few lashes, try not to faint this time!”

McGrif wheeled around on his left heel with a speed that surprised both men. He reached out right as the guard tried to whip him, catching the leather instrument in mid-air. With an expression of complete horror, the guard dropped the whip and reached for his dagger as McGrif freed his hands from the knotted mass of ropes. Without so much as a glance, McGrif hurled the pile of ropes at the guard with a force which knocked him to the ground. Clenching his large hands into fists, McGrif leapt over to the man and began to swing his arms downward with all the strength he could muster. With a reaction akin to a weasel, the guard rolled out in time to miss being pummeled, causing McGrif’s arms to slap painfully against the hard earth. The prisoner winced with pain, though he was far from defeated. The guard had assumed a combat stance while McGrif regained himself, leaving both men to now soundlessly face each other in the flickering torchlight.

            What had been a routine whipping had transformed into a struggle for survival for either man, and it became clear that neither was willing to back down until the other had fallen dead in a pool of their own blood. McGrif, feeling an unexplainable surge of hate energize his mind, charged blindly at the meek guard, who simply stood sheepishly with his dagger held straight in front of him. He attempted to strike McGrif in the back, though his feeble swing lacked any kind of accuracy or power, allowing the prisoner to dodge it easily and ram into his ribcage with the force of a catapult.

            Moments later, it was evident that he’d not only knocked the wind out of the guard, but he’s basically ruined his ribcage, who now lay flat in a corner atop a small pile of hay. Thin trails of blood soon oozed from his open mouth as he gazed up lifelessly, firelight twinkling in his cold black eyes.

            McGrif, his visage grim, eyes fixed in a gaze of solemn assuredness, stood atop the man, who’d convulsed slightly before dying.

He did not feel good about taking the jailors life, although it was necessary to save his own. He’d been due for execution the following morning for crimes he did not commit, though he possessed no evidence to support this. Although he desperately clung to the belief that he’d somehow be found innocent before his date of hanging, a part of him knew that escape in a manner such as this was his only justifiable option.

He attempted to walk through the prison grounds with as little noise as possible, though such a feat was impossible to accomplish. Twigs and pieces of dry leaves snapped underfoot as he tensed his muscles in worry. Try as he might, he knew that confrontation with other guards was unavoidable. He glanced over to the stone walls of the prison, and considered how easy it would be to grapple over them, but he’d need the appropriate tools to do so. While traveling across a softly pebbled pathway he came near a peculiar grouping of holding cells. The cells were unlike the one he’d been contained within, these ones were decorated with strange kinds of red pillars that circled around the thick iron bars. He’d never seen anything quite like it, and for a minutes considered if they were used to housing circus animals, but his suggestion was swept away as he took notice of a human form within one of the cages.

            “You there… are you a guard?” came a whispered voice. It belonged to a woman, though McGrif couldn’t see where it originated. “Over here,” it said. McGrif glanced over to one of the cages and saw a tall woman encased within translucent turquoise pillars. They were wrapped around her body in some bizarre way, and he wondered what kind of strange containment device was needed to house such a prisoner. “Help me out of this thing. I’ll help you escape this place!”

“How do I know this isn’t some trap,” McGrif said, stroking his chin in apprehension.

“Listen, I’m one of Bal ‘Thune’s daughters. The spell-weaver, you know him?” McGrif scanned his mind to search for the name, but it soon became apparent to him that he had no clue about the man she spoke about. Upon realizing this, she continued to speak regardless, but McGrif was too distracted by her voluptuous frame. She smiled playfully at him, and made a seductive gesture with her free hand. Suddenly the red bonds that had bound her disappeared without notice, and McGrif gazed at her beautiful body in open-mouthed wonder. She was a young woman, clearly in the bloom of youth, and McGrif could barely even attempt to contain his excitement from viewing such a splendid image.

“Why don’t you come over here?” she asked, her voice low, but in sweet, seductive tones. He slowly motioned over to her, and she was now writing on the ground, touching her delicate skin with her lithe hands. Her straw-colored hair smelled of fruit, causing Shift’s mouth to water, but her lips were even better. He kissed her softly at first, but then the image disappeared entirely. Shift opened his eyes in confusion, realizing that he was kissing a hog. Mud spattered against his face as the hog regurgitated some unwanted bile, causing Shift to recoil in disgust!

“Thought you could escape so suddenly? Came an ominous voice. Shift had heard it before, though he wasn’t sure where. It haunted his mind, bringing images of uncertainty and confusion. Shift fought to regain his thoughts, but they sunk deeper and deeper into stupidity. He had tried all day to free himself, to escape from the dread, and blackness, the paranoid terror that haunted the fringes of his imagination, but it was impossible to do so. He sunk and sunk and his arms seized up, making it impossible to use them in order to escape. He couldn’t escape, at least not right now, no matter how hard he tried. Maybe one day, sooner rather than later, he could do so, but for now, he could barely manage to maintain his breathing, but then he realized that all he had to do was focus on it. The sadness came, the thoughts to interconnected with feelings of doubt and confusion, why did he have to force himself to breath, perhaps his mind was to tired from the drugs he had taken that day, perhaps it was impossible for him to produce creatively inspired worlds while using them, and that was a terrible thought, because he was under the impression that he required them to maintain his sanity. Oh god the muscles burned in his arms, but he kept going anyway, because he didn’t give a shit/ All he had to do was focus on his breathing, he needed to increase it more and more to supply his brain with the necessary portions of oxygen. Again his mind traveled at an incalculable speed and he wished for dear life that he could slow it down, but now, at a time when it rained and was perfect for inspiration to arrive and for him to place his strange thoughts into words on this electronic form of page, he couldn’t even focus on steady breathing, so it was impossible to continue on in a way which allowed coherent writing to be built under his misguided supervision. Why hadn’t he just phoned and asked her? Why hadn’t he just phoned to hear the sound of her voice, to see how she was doing, so think about the amazing night they’d spent together just yesterday? She deserved at least that, and he was cheating himself by not doing so. Why had things transgressed the way they had, he wondered, though he knew that in some distant future they would share moments that he’d only dreamed about. He wanted so badly to be by her side that it pained him to be sitting here at this godforsaken computer, this fucking terrible instrument of addiction and temptation. This fucking black box of sin and degradation connected to an amoral world filled with strangeness. At a young age he’d been attracted to the network that promised instant information at unthinkable speeds. All the places he could go and things he could discover, wide-eyed with curiosity and interest. He loved the internet, and wanted to spend all his free time there, because it offered answers, answers that he could find at any time of day. Reality paled in comparison, but that fucking bald idiot had ruined his teenage years. That fucking asshole who spent all of his time ensuring that we weren’t being raised as normal children should. I was around 10 years old when we met him. I don’t even know what to think sometimes. I just want to be with her. I want to escape. I don’t want to live this life sometimes. It’s impossible to explain sometimes. I can’t even come up with the right words because my hands are too slow right now. But the real problem is I had my head tilted back, so the blood that would normally inhabit the regions of brain responsible for vocabulary production weren’t receiving sufficient amounts of oxygen. She likes me of course, and I like her, so there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll call her tomorrow, no big deal. I’m not getting phased out. This is not my last day in this mindset. There will be many more, and hopefully more happy than this one. I can’t explain the way I feel about some things, but I know that through her things will start to make more sense, to become more clear, and hopefully I can start to live a life that I want to live. Someday I’ll be able to use writing as a better escape which will aid me in times when the darkness threatens to overrule my thoughts. I shall hold it at bay with the imagination I’ve spent so many years developing, and I will remember to not press the keys so hard when I type, because one doesn’t need to press that hard for them to register the motion. Of course I don’t perceive my writing as being good in any form, but that doesn’t matter, I’m not writing for anybody else right now, I’m writing for myself, I just need a better keyboard, that’s all, perhaps I’ll use mac’s, because it is a lot nicer than this one.