Footsteps

Footsteps
 
I heard and felt the steam issue from the rattling pipes beside me. I didn't like it.
But this visceral hell doesn't give a damn what I like.
So I dealt with it.
The footsteps behind me quickened in pace. I would've preferred they didn't. I had grown accustomed to the steady pattering of feet on the brick floor behind me. The cause of those footsteps, breathing down my neck. I hated it, but I had adjusted to it. Now, I'd have to adjust again.
A shadow darted in front of me.
An entity.
Not the best way to begin the day. Well, whatever you could call a, "day" here.
A Skin-Stealer. Well, it wouldn't be too difficult.
A quick knife to its textured throat, a couple jabs in its eyes . . .
It was over as quickly as it had begun.
The footsteps resumed their regular pace behind me. I kept moving.
The apparent business of this place, with the constant noises and claustrophobic environment, clashed violently with the complete lack of any actual activity. Only occasionally would I find a new terror lurking beyond a turn in the hallway. Otherwise, it was pretty uneventful. Keep walking. Chew some Hound jerky. Hope for an escape. Sometimes I wonder if I'm going insane. But how could I know either way? Rational or not, how would you ever know if you're mind is still functioning?
The liminality of this place . . . . It's so incredibly sublime . . . 
The ringing in my ears. It was constant.
I found myself thinking that this . . . this place was all there ever was, all there ever would be, and all there ever had been. I had been here for so long that, well, recollections of my previous life in reality just . . . ceased to exist. All I have are faint impressions, really. I was more born here, in the Backrooms, than I was in my physical place of birth. This place and I have become intricately intertwined; I may know more about this place than anyone else . . . I may be more familiar with its odds and ends than anyone could ever be. 
Forgotten. That's what I am. I was seven years old when I was erased from existence. I've seen those, "collective unconsciousness" theories. Whether you think it's a load of B.S. or you've taken it as a dogma, you have to admit there's been a lot of evidence to support it. Are people really gone when they're never thought about again? Is being lost to obscurity really a fundamental phenomenon? The monotony of my current situation has . . . given me a lot of time ponder this. Am I now dead to the universe? Have the stars forgotten me? At the end of the day, who can ever hope to know?
The footsteps stopped. I stopped. It was such a jarring change.
My recollections came back for a moment.
I don't want to be lost. That's my motivation, really, for getting out of here. If I die in this maze of pipes, I will be forever and truly lost, and no one will find my body. Just one point in an infinite complex. 
I can remember, actually, that even when I was seven, I had an appreciation for art. Surrealist art, to be more specific. I only ever saw a couple surrealist paintings, but that was enough to make me fall in love with art as a whole. Who knows? Maybe I could've actually been an artist myself. As a fan of surrealist art, part of me wonders just how lucky I was to fall into a realm where I could see it for myself.
I once held a conversation with a woman who had been to an art museum called the Louvre. Throughout the entirety of the conversation, I kept asking her to describe the artwork. What does it look like?, I would ask. Is it impressionistic or realistic?, I would inquire. It was fascinating, it truly was. Maybe, if I hadn't fallen out of reality itself, I wouldn't have to beg some random woman in the Backrooms for details of artwork I'd never heard of. I could've done so many things. But it was all ripped away.
A door. That shook things up. A steel door, right at the end of the hallway I had been traversing for so long . . . . I hesitated to draw nearer. It just sat there, ominously, as if it had been waiting an unfathomable eternity for my arrival. The footsteps turned into a run. My footsteps. I raced towards the door, to my potential salvation. It grew larger in my field of vision. I extended my arms in front of me. The push-bar contracted. The door swung open.
sparkling light 
a blue sky 
towering 
blocky spires 
crowds 
moving 
the noise
Reality, at last.
Category:Always Tale Contest 1
Category:Tales