Solitarium

By: Ellie Applegreen '28

Art by: Lillia Hammond

Passage to passage she wanders, guided by the weak beam of her flashlight. Water drips around her, slowly making its journey down the stalactite and to the cave floor, where it is doomed to sit for centuries until some unlucky accidental carelessly stomps it away in a haze of panic and fear. She is not supposed to be here. In this moment, she is acutely aware of her position. Her palms sweaty, cold to the touch in the cave air. But there is no one there to touch her. No one to hear her heavy panting, no one to console her. She is utterly alone. Not the false sense of loneliness she felt while walking down the street, when eyes followed her, caressing every inch of her body. There is no one. 

~ 

Her flashlight is dead, and there is no way to tell how long ago that happened - months, years, decades even. There is nothing to see, no way to tell days from nights. Food is getting harder to find. No more of her time could be dedicated to searching for a way out. She didn’t feel hungry, that feeling had passed long ago, yet logically she knows she has to eat. Logically, she knows she should be afraid of death, but that fear escapes her. She focuses on making her life comfortable. She spends her days crafting as comfortable a home as she can, sweeping dust into a nest that she pads with scraps from her hiking backpack. This feels wrong as well; there is nothing that will fill the empty pit within her. Who is she performing this homemaking for? Is it truly for herself in this moment, or does she miss the routine of a life that felt eons away? Those are questions she feels too tired to answer. They were for another day. She would have plenty of time. Nestling down in her new bed, she traces the skin that was once kissed and warmed by the sun. It feels different now.

~

She walks down the street. Earbuds in, sunglasses on, iced coffee in hand that every so often drips condensation on her flip-flopped foot, shocking her even though she’s come to expect it. She focuses intently on the things within her control, trying to block out the looks pointed her way. Her head is on a swivel and soon she notices a figure, face hidden by a baseball cap, behind her. She begins to pick up her pace, trying to put as much distance between her and this stranger. He yells to her, a lewd comment about her legs, or her breasts, or her mouth, or any visible part of her. She turns to yell, to fight, to defend herself, but there were too many of them. He had multiplied, different forms splitting off from each other into one indistinguishable mass of words. Ripping control over her body back, she took off down the busy city sidewalk, stumbling over herself. 

~ 

She wakes suddenly, head cloudy, and tries to open her eyes. Her eyelids stretch, but they do not open. Panicking, she draws her fingers up to graze the spot where her eyes once were. An empty divot is all that is left. She caresses her body, fearful of whatever other changes she would find. Dragging her fingers down her arms, she recognizes them not as her own. They are thin and spindly, extending down past her knees. Standing, her legs bring her higher than they ever had before so that she has to crouch to fit under the low hanging, gravelly ceiling. Bile creeps up her throat, fighting for a way out, but she swallows it down, burning as it goes back to where it belongs. She shrieks a guttural yelp and begins to tug on her skin, trying to pull it away from herself. There is nothing she can do. This is who she is. Pale, eyeless, hunched, hideous. 

~

Her body has become less foreign. Her legs carry her the streams from which she drinks, her fingers snatch up beetles, her organs still help her live. This body is no longer a source of fear. It shows her strength. She was not swallowed whole by this cave. She fought back, carving a space for herself within this darkness. This body is proof of that. Eyes would never again grace or mar her skin. She would never again be corrupted by the thoughts or judgements of others. Her body is her peace. It is wholly her own.