The Crack Under the Door

They crossed the room silently. Intentional, perpetual, They saw. They watched.

The space around Them quivered, a sort of tremble that foreshadowed a dry, brittle shattering.

Sounds. In the empty room, the drip drip drip of the heating vents was a blaring horn. The footsteps outside were fists pounding on the door. The screams of the Suffering were eternal. Underneath all these, the constant thrum of the river continued. The river was all around, flooding through the walls, pouring down from above, pooling, swirling, reaching, holding, tearing.

Eighty legs remained touching the ground, glued by gravity, encouraged further by the force of Their thoughts. Contraptions above hung secure. Shields stood between Them and the eyes outside. Items of forgotten importance sat behind panels and locks.

They listened, and when the listening was not enough they looked. Under the wood. Through the crack.

They saw many things.

When the door opened, They existed for a single moment of sublime sadness. Then fear overcame everything, burned bright, consumed. Another voice joined the choir of Suffering.

And They were swept into the river once again. The river pushed.

They could not resist. Their prison, eternal, swallowed them for the billionth time.

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