The steady insistent thrum that beats in the back of my mind grows and dies with every foot fall, each thrum taking us deeper and deeper down the stairwell of darkness, until each step becomes a rhythm and each breath becomes dulled in anticipation.
The residual irony tang continues to grow and die around us, swirling like toxic mist in the air, and glued to the curious liquid that seeps down the rocky walls in a viscous stream. Every step further brings me closer and closer to spewing up my guts in disgust, which (to be honest) I would rather not.
The walls are damp, sticky, with this same water- perhaps a leak from the mountainous underwater palace above our heads. Or at least, that is my initial presumption, but upon inspection, I find that my hands do not come away from the water clean, but covered in a dark, glistening substance, gleaming red at the edges and fresh with the tang of rot. I do not touch the walls after that.
