Chapter Two: Candles

I hated waking up. Sleep was so pleasant, and I would always much rather face the risk of another nightmare to the waking hell that reality.

I simply wasn't a morning person. When I finally did wake, my body simply unable to go back to sleep, I would still lay in my bed. My eyes would remain closed, for the most part, my mind still trying to lose itself in the dream world, even as the memories flitted away.

The memories of my dreams would be replaced then, by the helplessness I always felt and the agonising reality of my life. My eyes would snap open then, some tiny part of my brain trying to distract myself by counting the lines on the ceiling or the corners of the room.

Steadily though, those distractions would seem to fade into the very thoughts I had been struggling to avoid. It would all come rushing back, until my mind settled on one particular sensation – hunger.

Food, oddly, was often an anchor to me. The tastier the food, the greater the anchor. It would distract me, stopping me from focusing on anything else, so I would get up and wearily make my way to break the fast.

Usually that would happen, but this morning, or afternoon, perhaps even evening – I could never be sure of when I would naturally wake – something was different.

I stared at the ceiling of the room, as usual, and found it wasn't one I recognised. It was grey, where every ceiling I remember waking to had been a creamy off-white, and stone, not plaster or paint. There was no light hanging from the ceiling, only occasional gentle licks of reds and yellows.

The air was damp, but smelled lightly of smokes and perfumes – lilac or lavender, a flowery smell. The room was only lit by a few candles and small incense sticks, making shadows leap over the entirety of the small, stone room. There were no corners for the light to cover – the room more round than square, and the only furnishings were a small wooden stool sat by a patch of the wall surrounded by cracks, and the bed on which I laid.

Calling it a bed was generous. It was a bare, brown mattress, rounded and set on the ground. It was thin and worn, and patches of red, dried into it, stank of blood.

I sat up, examining the room, then suddenly realised I was naked. My chest, lightly covered in hair, had been uncovered, and even my small manhood had not been provided with the decency of a cloth covering. I was alone, fortunately, but I wondered at what had happened, and where I was.

The last I remembered was that odd dream about the strange field, where I had been attacked by the ominous people from my nightmares. Now, I was alone in a cave with no way out. Clearly another dream then?

Suddenly I felt claustrophobia grip me. I had never experienced anything like it, except when I had panic attacks, and... Was that one coming now?

I began the deep breathing exercises I had been taught, but suddenly stopped, looking at the candles.

I was in a cave, seemingly sealed, and my only lights were candles. Fire consumed Oxygen, didn't it? How much was there left in this room then?

I tried to calm, determined to take breaths as light as I could. I needed to get out, and I needed to do it while there was still enough air. But how?

My eyes flickered, unbidden, to that patch of wall framed by cracks. If anything, that must be, or have been, the door.

I stood, feeling the coarse cave floor beneath my small feet, and walked steadily to that wall. Reaching my arms out, I gently pushed against it, but felt no movement. I pushed harder, and harder, pushing at the stone which refused to budge. Of course. I had never been too strong, but in this instance, I was desperate. I pushed with all my body, my hands turning raw from sheer pressure, and I feared a bone or two snapping in the strain.

I moved away to change tactics. Prising my short fingers into the cracks in the wall, now pulling desperately at the stone. Still no movement.

I gave up. I was unlikely to move the stone anyway. I had never been that strong...

I looked back to the candles, and honestly worried. Some of the candles – the smaller ones - had gone down by about a quarter since I had last looked. How much more light did I have? No, how much more air did I have left?

Not enough.

"Help!" I croaked, my voice hoarse and the sound escaping from my lips without my awareness.

I cleared my throat a few times, raising a hand covered in rock dust to massage at my Adam's apple.

"Help!" I called out, more loudly, though my throat now ached slightly. "Help!"

I don't know how long I continued, but by the time I stopped to rest, those smaller candles that were about 15cm had dwindled to measly stumps. I turned back to the mattress and sat on it, gazing into the flame.

Even now, I still believed I was in a dream of some kind, but what sort of awful dream was this? My fingers traced over my chest and stomach. There was no scar, no marks. There was no trace of any wounds from that field... That had surely been a dream then.

My stomach rumbled then, vibrating against my prodding fingers, and despite myself, a smile appeared on my face.

I shook it away, and selected most of the longer candles and all of the shorter ones. I arranged them into a row, before blowing the selected candles out. The room grew dim, and I could barely see beyond my fingers; even those were bathed in a dull orange.

Lying there on the tattered makeshift bed, I silently watched one of the remaining flames. It danced in the darkness, the glow surrounding the flame looking like a halo ebbing and pulsing mute. The wick was invisible, making the flame appear to float in the air just above the candle. Its light heat caused beads of wax to form and trickle slowly, unsteadily down the rough edges of the candles.

It was less a cylindrical shape, I finally realised, more a crude stick of wax set ablaze. Whether that was from design or the passage of time was unknown to me.

Eventually, the flame reached the base of the candle, and the flame seemed to lap hungrily at the last few drops of wax on the small stone plate it occupied. I could hear it, a gentle rhythmic tapping. One, two, one, two. A grunt, the rustlings of bodies and cloths.

No. That wasn't the candle. I shot up, then set about relighting most, but not all, of the candles using the dying embers of others. I hurried towards what I had thought the door, and heard them clearer.

People! They were talking, in hushed and muffled voices, and their feet slapped gently against a stone floor outside. Were they friendly? Would they let me out? And would they even hear me? I had to try!

"Help!" I shouted, and almost immediately the sounds from outside ceased. Were they still there?

"Help!" I called again, loud as I could dare, and loud as I could. "Help me!"

I paused to hear a hushed conversation, then more shuffling. Were they ignoring me?

My answer came with a terrible noise, like a great boulder being pushed over more rocks. No, not pushed, I realised, watching in awe as that cracked wall slid away, haltingly.

An old man, his face pruned and grey hairs wispy thin on his head hurried through the gap, as soon as it was big enough. He moved swiftly, though stiffly, and his clothes were a filthy brown dress, hanging from his thin frame as though it barely touched his skin. It went down to his ankles, letting his bare, bony feet protrude.

I looked at his face, as he looked at mine. His eyes seemed cold and dead, though his furrowed brows shot up upon seeing me, and under his crooked nose, thin, quivering lips parted slightly, revealing that most of his teeth were gone, and those that remained were a brownish yellow.

His eyes seemed to flicker to my torso, where I knew I had been stabbed in that dream-field. It was then I suddenly remembered my lack of clothes, and hurried my hands to cover my indecency.

The old man chuckled then, his voice rasping and whistling through his lack of teeth.

"Be a' ease," he said, his mouth flicking spit everywhere as he spoke, "Yer alive, an' no' in yer grave n'more."

Author's Note: Oh, so the train's still running. Hope you're enjoying this wreckage so far.