Her Basement

She fell down the stairs in the dark, banging her hips and ankles until she landed. All her muscles were stiff; dull red aches turning brown in her body. She thought she had been holding a candle, but had she dropped it, or had it never been?

Wood grain on the floor, on the walls, the threat of splinters in her fingertips. She tried not to touch anything.

When her eyes had adjusted, she could see the faintest outline of the stairs, wooden stairs with gaps you could fall through, if you really tried. There might have been a hint of light at the top, the bottom of a door, or maybe not. She couldn't tell if she could see that far.

Water dripped somewhere, but the air was warm and musty and felt familiar. The space was almost friendly; and yet, she could feel threats in the air. The threat of a storm, static electricity. The threat of lightning. The threat of your candle going out. The threat of your candle lighting up a shadow in the corner.

Getting to her feet, she held up the candle. It was in her hand again, unlit, smelling of beeswax. She had no way to light it, which was nice. It would blur her night vision.

Was it night? She didn't know.

So she began to walk, as slowly as she could while still moving, pausing often. She didn't want to stand still, but was moving worse? The floor kept pricking her, but she found no splinters in her skin. Shadows hung cobweb-thick from the ceiling and she couldn't see anything but darkness and space and not-space, the shadows of walls.

She worried she'd been here for too long. She couldn't stand doing the same thing for too long. Had she been walking for too long, pausing for too long? The paragraph was too long, too many words.

Should she light the candle?

She wanted to. But she didn't.