Kinda Like This, Only Darker

Place de la Concorde
Photo: J.M. Schomburg


I walk down the corridor, my flashlight focused ahead, illuminating an elliptical path before me. All else is dakrness. As I proceed, a faint light emerges. It slowly becomes larger, and merges with my flashlight's pale beam, revealing itself to be a kind of doorway. It is the only egress as the corridor tapers ever narrower into a the circular portal. The aperture inches closer as I proceed, and it is surrounded by two statues, whose features become clearer as I approach.

On the right side, a mother and child, sculpted from stone of the purest white, with deposits of some sparkling crystal--a glowing, shimmering spectre. The mother looks tenderly down at the child, swaddled, content, a serene and edified look on its own tiny face.

And on the left: the god Bacchus, towering, a crown of laurels made entirely of grapes leaves. A barrel of the finest wine is slung over his shoulder, his huge chest and visage frozen in a perpetual laugh the likes of which no mortal could conjure.

I step through the open door into a courtyard. Directly in my path is a looming marble obelisk. I continue towards it. The pale light from the moon above reflects off its pallid surface; dark blue veins course through the stone. Shadow upon shadow.

I am halfway there. Behind me, there is nothing. To the left of me, a void. To the right, a deep chasm. I dare not look down. My gaze focuses intently on the pyramidal tip of the monolith, and the faintly visible hieroglyphics covering its surface.

I walk three times around the monument, and sit before it. I breathe.

A light flashes in the East.

I exhale.