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THE LONG WAY
Crawling, you pass over fourteen tell-tale cracks. You are up to a wall.
You see your hands. The ceiling, lifting up once more as if a lid, permits sunrise. The light permeates heavily, strongly, yet remains diffuse, cloudy. There is no point of origin, nowhere to find the sun or source which surely must be artificial.
It is noticeably hotter.
You squint. A figure shifts from its perch. But in the next instant, eyes unfocused on many blurry red shapes, you lose sight of it.
Where do you go?
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