Page 13 of Tempest

Ardyn

The differencebetween upstairs and down is like night and day.

Where the art display was pure white—painfully so—down here is endless black. Nothing adorns the walls save for a darkness so deep, the shadows refuse to compete. A select number of pot lights line the ceiling, dimmed to their lowest setting, spotlighting the rows of wooden chairs in the center, all facing a nondescript podium draped in black velvet.

“This is wild,” Mila whispers beside me. The atmosphere has lowered even her to muted tones.

Shoes clomp down behind us, and fifteen or so patrons mill around the chairs, conversing in hushed voices.

The air is thick. Like I’ve stepped into a void sucking up precious oxygen.

“Hey. You okay?” Clover’s face smudges into view.

“Yes. I, um.” Rapid breaths follow my words. “I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

It’s like a bag’s been shoved over my head. No, a cloth pillowcase. A black one. Thick cotton. The stale scent of mothballs.

I can’t breathe.

“…Ardyn?” A hand tightens around my arm, jostling me. “You good? People are staring.”

My knees turn weak. The suffocating blackness creeps into my vision, unsatisfied with just eating the walls.

“I-I have to…”

“I told you this was a bad idea.” I hear Clover murmur over my head to Mila.

“Omigod. I think she’s gonna be sick.”

“No, it’s—I’m fine.” I try to straighten, realizing I’ve doubled over.

“Bathroom’s that way—” Clover begins, pointing behind the podium, but I don’t wait for her to finish or help me in that direction.

I bolt.

In a rush of gluttony, the shadows swallow me whole.

* * *

I run down a darkened hallway, using the feel of the walls to give me a sense of direction. The sounds of the basement auction room quickly fade away, leaving only my panicked breaths for company.

I thought I could do this. I thought I was over this.

I won’t let the whimpers escape.

Swallowing, I slow my steps and control my breath the way my trauma therapist taught me. In one, two, three, four, and out, one, two, three, four…

My heart keeps drilling into my ears, but my chest feels less tight, the walls less close to me.

I don’t know how much of the corridor I’ve traveled or if I took a few corners along the way. As my mind clears, the panicked claws retreat, leaving gaping holes of time and distance.

This sometimes happens when the panic attacks take possession. I lose substance, though I’m physically the same. I haven’t succumbed in years.

Voices draw my head up, close, but not coming closer. A low, baritone drawl utters clipped syllables. Another one—also male—responds with a higher, faster pitch.

Straightening from the wall, I creep closer, unable to resist a distraction occurring outside of my head.

Dim light arcs across the floor ahead, coming out of a door not fully shut. On silent feet, I creep closer, the muted, urgent words between the men taking shape.

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