Catacombs

By Hani Manjunath

Gold foil under my crescents shines in the dim candle light. It’s been three days, and it still hasn’t come off. It’s lined by pink skin and raw scraped fingertips. I tried scraping it off, it just wouldn’t come out. The irony of how gold glitter taunts me to the point of madness is not lost on me. The folded edge of a crisp white envelope digs into my back from my pocket. It’s the only thing my cluttered mind can focus on, other than my shallow breathing in the dim tunnel, like a fish gasping for breath onshore. Indistinctly, as if I were submerged underwater noise filters through. Loud footsteps, hammers clanging against my skull, spindle cold fingers grasping at my shoulders. And then, suddenly, the cold splash of water on my face. “You shouldn’t have wasted that on me, we barely have any left,” I mutter looking up at them. “Won’t matter cause we’ll make it out today, no matter what”, she said, gritty red hair swaying in the dim candle light. That’s what she said the second day too. He scoffs in return, seems we share the sentiment. Leaning casually against the catacomb walls he thumbs the envelope poking out his pocket, only for it to snatched out by Boots. Nobody knows who Boots is, just that he’s one of them, yet not, at the same time. The three of them entered together but Boots was already here. He’s the only one more determined to make it out than her. He’s also stayed alive the longest. Strange. I look on either side of me, but after five days, I no longer have the guts to stare into the eyes of those gaping voids for long. Whatever brief spike of emotion that’d coursed through my veins flickers like the embers of a dying fire and I’m tempted to melt into the gritty walls of the catacombs. My vision begins to tunnel again. The pounding headache behind my eyes intensifies as my mind flashes to that humid sweltering Parisian night when all changed. ——————————————————————————————————————— Whoever said that Parisian nights are a dream, are sorely mistaken. On a principle, Parisians are a pain in the arse. But at night, when they’re high off the taste of a wild night, they’re another matter entirely. The front door rattles against the hinges as someone bangs on it and shouts muffled French curses through. I yank it open and snatch my mail out of the mailman’s hand and slam the door back in his disgruntled face before he has the chance to utter another curse. I’d planned to leave it on the countertop and open it in the morning, but the gold caught my eye. It had already stuck to my fingertips, a small residue, but enough to incite curiosity. I bite my lip in concentration, and finger the crisp envelope open, Come with me, to play a game To the maze of bones, Where death decays Follow your heart But never your mind For the whispers are sinister And guide you they shall not Enter at your own risk But always remember Enemies are within and without But light shall forevermore be, your foe ——————————————————————————————————— A loud clang reverberates through the tunnels. A loud creaking, and then, silence. Boots staggers forward, almost as if in a drunken daze. “D-do you see it?” His voice ends in a near whisper, swallowed by the darkness. But not quite, there was something else in the air. Hope perhaps? “Light, I see light at the end of the tunnel!” And he takes off in surprising agility, heavy boots smacking against the bones in startling urgency. What else were we supposed to do? We went after him. Seems as if the envelope digging into our pockets and the gold under our crescents wasn’t reminder enough.

By Hani Manjunath