Despondency
By angw(nz)
Thank you to Tazmy for reigniting the writing bug and for the beta
Disclaimer: Not mine just borrowing for a very short time
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An exquisitely vibrant butterfly departed leaving an empty dull brown husk in its wake.
In the absolute darkness a beam of light pierced through with a sharp blinding hope. The insect hovered in the bright beacon for a moment before lifting itself towards the tiny crack in the wall. Its wings vibrations echoed in the quiet space with a retreating whisper. The light was muffled as wings fluttered close to its body and it withdrew from the despair of the room.
The beacon returned to its previous position, bright and unwavering, its intensity severely diminished.
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Rodney listlessly rolled over to find a more comfortable position, his back was aching lying on the cold surface. He groaned as he settled onto his side and rested against the hard wall. He turned his face to the door or at least where he calculated the door was. Despite his eyes adjusting to the space, darkness pervaded his vision.
A small sliver of light from the crack in the wall did little to pierce the blackness. It was as if it was being swallowed up in the gloom.
He didn't remember what had happened. How he had come to be here. Did it matter anymore? He snorted miserably. It was like an eternity had passed. Long enough for him to feel like he'd been turned inside out. Shattered, melted then reformed into something else. Something corrupted, dulled and muted.
He had had a lot of time to think. A man with all the time in the world and no more useful tasks to put his previously ingenious mind to. He sensed the last of his brilliance leaching from him into the hard unyielding surfaces.
Pessimism was an exhaustive mistress.
He felt extremely tired. Tired of running endless hopeless scenarios in his fractured mind. Tired of voiceless whispers saying don't give up. He breathed out softly.
He was tired of the almost silence. It was profoundly deafening and maddening.
A slow drip was his constant companion. An instrument of frustration and oasis of necessity.
Long after he had run out of calculations and theories he'd used the timing of the drip as a tempo to which he had exhausted all his musical machinations. Long dead composers' symphonies forgotten like his confidence that he would be found.
What do you do when there is nothing left? No arguments. No expectations. No ambition. Just acceptance and resignation.
He retreated into his mind. Into the farthest corners trying to find a spark of intelligent thought and hope.
He breathed slowly in and out. In and out. In and out. In and out. In and out until awareness faded away.
A hand caressed his cheek. The gentle touch a forgotten promise.
"We're here."
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The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails. - William Arthur Ward