The pit, the abyss, it was always there. At least, as far as I can remember. The first time I heard its call, it was subtle, almost unnoticeable. My mother was reading her pick-and-choose verses from the book, looking back up at me after each reading with an expectant look in her eyes. She tried so hard to belittle me, scolding me on how wrong it was to like men, but I was never swayed. Still, the call grew stronger every time she sat me down for her dogmatic ramblings, but it would only show itself to me later on in life.
Not once did I believe she became a Christian in good faith. Way I see it, she only did so as a way to excuse her more toxic behaviours. It’s no wonder I got into my first real relationship during college, since it was the first time I was really free from her endless remarks on my so-called “dirty ways”.
I don’t know exactly what went down in the time I was away, but after dropping out of engineering and coming back home my parents were already living apart with divorce papers in order. And, like a pattern, propagating in time, Eric told me that this - us - wouldn’t work out. My attachment blinded me to how shallow Eric was. He never said anything outright, but it was obvious how he saw me as lesser than himself.
My mum said that if, after finishing my engineering course, I still wanted to pursue carpentry, then I would have the skills required. I guess she hoped I’d set my focus on greater horizons, but it didn’t help me achieve anything.
It was better, living with just my dad. He helped me through it all, but it’s always such a slippery rut I’ve found myself in. I still dreamed of being a carpenter, but even he could see that I wasn’t in the right state of mind to start a whole business. We ended up deciding that I would apply for some bog-standard transient jobs with the aim of saving up money for a carpentry course.
That never really happened. At 19, I started working at an office, spreadsheets, emails, that kind of stuff. Four years later, dad first started showing signs of early-onset dementia. At 54. It’s such a hopeless feeling to watch your father degenerate into a confused mess, and looking back I think it would’ve been better if he was struck by a heart attack.
After two more years, I was up one raise and down everything else. It was January when the pit first revealed itself to me, a late weekend night of remote overtime, the only way I could afford the ever-rocketing living costs.
The work was harsh, mind-numbing, and I kept having to go back to fix mistakes, over and over, my tired mind fucking it up, as it always did. My feet were cold to the point where I could barely feel them, even when I tried moving and wiggling my toes around. I knew I was moving my feet, but there was no feeling.
I looked down to see that, where the navy carpet had been, sat a circular hole in the floor. Almost perfect, but not. A gaping pit, walls of masterfully carved black stone, that descended into thick blankets of darkness. I forcefully pushed myself away from the desk, tumbling off my chair, then crawled over to the edge of the hole. As I peered over the crevice, the only sound was a low breeze. A cold earthen breath I imagined blowing throughout the tunnels of a cave.
You know that feeling? The call of the void? The subtle tug toward one step into nothing. I felt it. Only, the rejection of the idea that usually followed just wasn’t there. It didn’t scare me, only continued to pull me in. Gazing down into it, the knots in my stomach, pulled tight by the years, came loose. An unrestrained warmth took over my body as the pit seemed to strip away the weight on my heart, accepting the burden for itself.
