Down

On a quiet night, I was draped with a blanket, sunken and hugged by the worn leather of my couch. Phone in hand, I scrolled through some lists of articles I’ve saved to read later. That’s when the advert appeared. Foreign, yet familiar. A journal, suede and satin interlaced in a strange, webbed pattern.

Something I swear I’d felt before… though I couldn’t recall when.

The more I stared, the tighter it pulled at me, like a memory clawing through fog. A book I knew I had, tucked away somewhere in the basement I never dared to check.

I almost ignored it. But my thumb froze. My throat felt tight. And through my comfort on stitch and rug, I pushed myself up, padding softly across the wood floor toward the door.

I gently twisted the rusted knob, its creak gnawing against the silence. The frame felt… narrow. Narrower than it should have been. Still, I pressed on.

The air changed the instant I stepped through… thick, damp, metallic on the tongue. A stark contrast to the warmth of the room I’d left behind. The bulb overhead flickered in spasms, coughing out light like it was dying in turns.

I set my foot on the first step. Misplaced it. For a moment it was as though I’d forgotten how to descend at all. My hand shot to the railing, aged wood, brittle, untrustworthy. I kept moving. The walls seemed closer now, pressing at my shoulders, as though they were inching inward with each breath.

Every step stuck, surely more than normal. Each ledge more of a demand than the last.

As I pressed further down, my legs burned, my eyes adjusted to nothing, and my nose felt numb. The staircase had never been this long. It couldn’t be. My gut told me something was wrong… yet I kept moving, step by step, guided only by the creak of old wood beneath my feet. Half steps, guesses, prayers.

But… maybe I miscounted. Maybe I’m just tired. It’s just stairs. Just stairs.

The air pressed against my lungs, tighter, heavier. The walls sweated damp. Silence thickened around me until even my thoughts began to echo, swirling in a slow, choking spiral. About the stairs. About… what?

Why was I going down? Why had I left the couch?

A… journal? Did I ever own a journal? No… I don’t write. I’ve never written. But then why do I remember writing? Why do I remember lines… perfect lines that I never made?

They unfold in me, word for word, as though I had carved them myself. Not scraps. Whole passages. Pages that never existed but cling to me like commandments. They don’t feel learned. They feel implanted. Etched without my permission. Without consent.

Scratched under my skin.
Stitched behind my eyes.
Memories I never lived, burning in me like truths I can’t forget.

My legs, burn.
Burn. Burn.

Every step a weight.
Every breath a theft.
Air. Wet. Thick. Pressed.

I tried to stop.
I thought I stopped.
The stairs didn’t.

Step after step,
they came without me.
They carried me.
Dragging. Pulling.

Hand on the wall, slick.
Not wood. Not stone.

Warm. Breathing. Groan.

I fell.
I think I fell.
I kept going.

Lower.
Lower.
Always lower.

Words, not mine.
Never mine.

They move my mouth.
They fit my teeth.
I whisper them.
I sing them.

I wrote this.
I didn’t write this.
I wrote this.
I didn’t write this.

The font grew bolder.
The font grew heavier.
The font grew blacker.

Outward it presses.
Against the soft palate of my mouth.
Until my mouth learns its bevel.

I taste ink that isn’t liquid.
I taste instructions.

I wrote this.
I did not write this.
I am being written.

[Section 6]

Kerning. Yearning.
Serif. Seraph.
Lead in. Leaden.

Webbed suede.

Hand. Spine.
Mouth. Line.
Sight. Mine?

Stairs: continue.
Tens. Hundreds. Thousands. Drownsands.

Landing flees.
Door breathes.
Up is underneath.

Not my word.
Not my nerve.
Still I serve.

Bite the type,
type bites back,
tongue fits track.

Font grows bold.
Throat grows mold.
Warm script, cold.

continue… c on t in u e… c o n tin u ere a d ing…

Teeth click. Glyphs.
Jaw shifts. Lifts.
Name drifts. Sifts.

I wrote this.
I didn’t write this.
I am what writes this.

“Continue Reading?”
Screen in thigh.
I don’t reply.
My mouth does.
“I.”

Downsound.
Heartbound.
Spellbound.

Found. Crowned. Drowned.

Step. Step. Step.

Down.
Down.
Down.