The Labyrinth (unfinished)

The Labyrinth

A surge of suits swept me under. I reached the surface, caught a gasp of air, and was pulled out by the wing-tip and high-heel tide. Why had I agreed to meet downtown? The current of traffic and crowds tossed me about and only by the strength of my desire for feedback did I manage to stay afloat. My friend had suggested a secluded fountain where he said it would be quiet enough to discuss my writing. When I finally spotted the high jet streams shooting from the pavement it had the paradoxical appearance of a lone speck of dry land.

It wouldn’t be long before I was thrown back, for my friend’s commentary was abrupt and mostly negative. He was a tall and undeniably attractive man who had achieved some success in getting his works published.

I sat nodding my head and trying to keep a blank face as he illustrated his dissatisfaction with my writing.

The story I had written (now pardon my diversion from this one) was about a young boy discovering psychedelics and the process by which they began to consume his mind. What started as a euphoria became a spiritual quest that lead down a dark rabbit hole and culminated in psychoses. The boy’s mind, altered permanently by the effects of the drugs, began presenting each of his hopes, joys, desires and fears as physical manifestations. For example, a woman he found intimidatingly attractive would grow more tempting the more fearful he became, a vicious cycle until the woman would take on the image of beckoning death.

When we departed he gave me a firm handshake and strode confidently into the afternoon mobs, floating high and relaxed in that sea of tired commuters. Clutching my manuscript close to my chest, head bent, I plunged in once more.

So it happened that on my voyage back home I became lost. Buildings and bodies loomed, street corners bore names I did not recognize. I rapidly became desperate for any space that would provide a moment’s peace and when through the waves of suit jackets I caught a glimpse of a damp side alley I immediately swam for it. In reaching the shelter of the alley I found a bum, a man so dirty and disheveled that I had honestly mistaken him for a pile of trash. I must have startled him, for he jolted when I addressed him. “Can you tell me where we are?” I asked, but he only stared at me. “Would you like my coat?” I offered, “It’s yours if you can help me get home.” He shook his head and turned away from me to gaze down the alley. After a pause he turned to me again and gestured behind me to the endless crowd, then down the alley. For him there appeared only two choices: dive back into the the city swells or turn clear away from it. I glanced back, gauging once more my fear of the city, then turned to weigh it against this new uncertainty.

The ground was of polished cobbles and had been left unpaved. Cracked cement walls bore oxidized copper piping and spray painted images and words too washed out by rain to distinguish. Beyond the buildings which marked the alley entrance I could see where the walls turned to brickwork, stretching another 20 yards before turning a sharp right. I could not fear for losing my direction of travel for that had already happened. I was not afraid of who or what lay around the corner, for though I was lost I could tell it was a nice part of town and aside from this silent sentinel the place seemed entirely forgotten. With a resigned shrug and a final nod toward my friend I pressed on.

There were no doors. This was the first thing that struck me as odd about this alley, that though there appeared to be businesses operating out of these buildings they did not have access to the back alley. Neither, I realized, were there any dumpsters. Not so much as a scrap of paper to denote human presence. As I approached the corner even the faded graffiti started to disappear, and when I poked my head around to see what awaited me I found the walls were completely blank.