The pits of hell

Death found in a mine is an experience like no other, when the dark tunnels you’ve come to be so familiar with becomes your eternal tomb.

It would happen so suddenly.

All would appear to be fine one moment, then a moment later you would be staring into a collapsed hallway at your back, the bellowing sound of earth crashing into the ground being the bell that heralds your execution, even if you don’t yet know of the judgement bestowed upon you.

You would reassure yourself, whispering within your mind that these old tunnels held nothing new to offer. The lantern in your hands would seemingly reinforce such a notion, lighting the way for rescue and the long path of life ahead of you.

As small as it is, that lonely candle becomes your hope for survival, allowing you sight as you slowly begin to move the mountain of gravel and rock that blocks your escape.

But did you know? Fire needs air to burn, and for someone trapped in a mine, such a resource is a scarcity.

Slowly, that burning hope becomes your undoing, consuming your vitality and becoming the hand grips your throat.

With a stalwart body you move the earth that blocks your path, but for each pebble removed two boulders come to take its place.

You would dig…

…and dig.

…and dig.

You’ll keep on digging until your frail arms can no longer bear the burden, your hands bloodied from the futile struggle. Not a dent has been made in what blocks your path.

Excusing the collapse of your body as merely a moment of rest, you’d attempt to catch your breath. But you cannot.

You breathe.

You heave.

Yet air you find not.

The bell has tolled, and you are already out of time. Your body can no longer recover without air, your strength burnt to a crisp by the fragile hope you so desperately held onto.

A choice is no longer allowed. The candle is extinguished, and nothing more could be seen. The darkness settles upon your body, heavier than the earth that has brought your doom.

The only sound allowed to your ears is heavy breathing, and the dripping of water.

Drip.

Drip.

Your execution had already been decided, all that is left is to await your end, the tapping of water against the freezing ground marking the seconds that stretches longer than an eternity.

Did you know? Even through the mountain of earth, air can still pierce through. Not enough for the lantern to be lit again, not enough for you to catch your breath, but just enough for a person to escape death by suffocation.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It would happen so slowly, exhaustion deeper than any other creeping in with each second, eating through skin and flesh to reach your very bones, consuming your body bit by bit.

Drip by drip, starved of everything that once resided, the body withers until there is nothing left except your despairing mind, and a boundless darkness that crushes the soul.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

That is the fate of those who dared to brave the pits of hell, and perhaps the fate of I who has been allowed a second life.