The Definition of Dysania (A Collection of Short Trepidations)

ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇs

These plain, desolate, halls reverberate with my reckless steps. The walls are a dull white, the floor is wood, and this entire maze is gently lit by...something. I can't see the ceilings. Not in the way where it seems like there is no ceiling, but I physically cannot maneuver my head to look up high enough to see it. It is as if my neck goes numb when I try; at least I can keep my eyes forward. The floor isn't reflective enough to see anything either. So there is a light source, but I can't tell if they are large lamps, harsh fluorescent lights, or something else. I don't know where I am. I had a night of drinking and revelry, to satiate my boredom for once, I passed out in a corner in an alleyway, and I woke up here.

***

When I first got up, I asked myself if this is the afterlife. Am I dead? It echoed throughout the hallway.
No response came, and I almost prefer it that way.

I can't tell time anymore. There are no clocks, and the light never stutters or dims. Not even a bit. I've been walking for so long now. So many corners. Everything is just another hall.

Sometimes my legs get tired and I sit down for a bit. Every time, I am motivated by sudden panic and a sense of doom to get up and start running again. Even if my legs are in excruciating pain, like constant burning, and twisting knives in my thighs and calves, I cannot stop walking. Or running. Sometimes I even sprint; with only hope in mind until it deflates and dies and decays.

I am so thirsty too. And hungry, but I can ignore my stomach writhing and pleas easier than I can ignore my desert throat. I can't smell or hear anything, but sometimes I take my shoes and socks off to feel the soft wood on my feet. I don't dare touch the walls.

***

I can't sleep either. I don't know why, but I can't. It's like my mind automatically tricks itself into not going to sleep—like I have sudden insomnia.
If I am still alive, then at least this will be over soon. Humans can't survive more than three days without water.

One week, without food.

11 days, without sleep.

I can't count days, but I try to count seconds. The farthest I've gotten is in the 700's before my mind trailed off-pace, and I had to start over.

***

Another corner. Another hall.

A door at the end.

I pause, stunned. I haven't seen anything but the walls and floors, and now there is a door. A way out?

I gasp and shakily sprint towards it. My sweaty hands grasp the long wooden handle. My heart soared with excitement.

I slowly lower the handle, as if it will disintegrate if treated roughly. Hear a click.

Quietly open it. The hinges don't creak. My heart has flown to my dry throat, and I lick my lips nervously with nonexistent moisture. I peek through a sliver and open the rest.

Through this portal, led...
A different colored hallway. With darker grey walls and stone floors.

Another maze.
Another hell.

I wanted to scream in disappointment.

I debated turning back and ignoring the door, but my curiosity simply couldn't resist. I walked through the doorway, and for the first time here, felt a chill. It sadly passed quickly though, like an unruly breeze—unaccompanied by its friends.

Maybe the AC is on here?

Am I even in a building? There is no way that there is a building so long and blank that I can still keep walking through it after so long.

I keep staggering forward.

***

There seem to be more corners here.
It's been taking me by surprise.

My hunger and thirst get worse. My throat feels like sandpaper rubbing against itself every time I breathe. I think it bled once or twice too.

My stomach feels like it is digesting itself by now. But it won't shut up.

Autophagy means 'to eat one's self' in Latin.

I think I'm doing that because I feel like a wandering black hole, darkening these nice halls.

The walls seem to be a little closer, though.
If I am to be crushed to death then I ask for them to get on with it.
I feel a bit like death, anyways.

Are people looking for me, I wonder? Are there search parties out in some random wood-scape, calling my name like if they say it loud enough, I'll answer?

Are there ads on local channels? Are other girls going out of their homes clutching their keys between their fingers, ready to stab, in fear—of hearing my name?

Again, am I dead?

I keep staggering onward.
Maybe I'll find another door.
Or an answer.

Echoes of the footsteps of my past taunt the path forward.