The orange bannisters were playing tricks with my mind. In the vertigo swirl I could feel the remains of the Granny Smith peels running riot ‘round my tonsils. Sweat like vinegar was pinching at my cheeks, drooling over my chin, pooling under my eyebrows. It was a narrow shaft, but not narrow enough. Not narrow enough to keep out the memories that were ordered, like interlinking lines in my mind, tunneling down and down into an abyss of nothing-ness. Just cold, hard concrete and a half-forgotten scream. The shadow still looked like his blood, fresh on the steps.
Copyright: Victoria. O