Anna Lin
Period 8
3/7/22
Creativity and Fiction
Modern Mythology 2022
Down within the deepest dungeon, in the farthest end of a corridor, lies a figure behind bars. For what, it is unclear. Perhaps he was once a thief, roaming the streets and robbing it of its riches. Mayhaps he’s was a murderer serving his sentence for the grave crime of stealing an item as precious as life. Whatever reason it may be, he was rightfully held there to serve out the remaining time till his inevitable execution.
It was quiet that night—like all nights, and he made neither a noise nor any movement. His stillness was not to be confused with peaceful slumber, for to sleep is to dream, and he has not a dream now or ever before. Instead, his nigh blissful silence is meant to blend in with the nothingness of the background. Though it should not have been thought of as odd, since his was the only cell inhabited on that level. Maybe even the only one in the entire dungeon for all he knows, which he does not know much of. It was silent, so he too chose to stay quiet.
But then the silence was broken. No, it would be more accurate to say it had opened its arms to welcome something entirely new: sound. Soft, then louder, yet never intruding, like a guest politely knocking on a door, footsteps drew near. The silence, the host, invited them in but did not left themself. The silence ebbed at the new entity but stayed in the shadows, there yet not there at the same time.
And so with the intrusion, the prisoner allowed himself to break free of his own lull. Looking up, he stares through the barred dividers at the stranger who did not belong. He stares with a questioning gaze, no words leaving his mouth.
The stranger stared back, with a look he could not discern.
“Speak.” They said, and as if his tongue remembered how to form words again, the prisoner spoke.
“Who are you?”
The stranger mirrors the words back at him, except mirrors do not speak.
“Who are you?”
“Me?” The prisoner pondered on the thought, as if it was a subject foreign to him, before answering, “I am scum, the trash of society.”
“Surely that can’t be your name?”
“Name?” The wrongdoer questioned, “I have no name.”
“Ah, but all humans have a name. That is how we converse.”
“I have none, so perhaps you should not converse with me.”
With how disagreeable the prisoner was acting, any normal human would have turned tail in search of a better companion to waste their time upon. Had the mysterious stranger beyond the bars been a normal human, they would have inarguably done the same. Instead, he smiles with amusement.
“Very well then, let us speak as one non-human to another non-human. I shall discard my name, you may call me the Good Man.” With a satisfied nod to himself, he addressed the man laying on the cold stone that makes up the cell floor. “Would you like to come with me? On a walk that is, I value my head much too dearly to lose it for treason in helping you escape.”
“How will we walk if I do not escape?” The prisoner asked.
“It cannot be considered escaping if you are returned in time.”
With that, the cell doors opened soundlessly. If the prisoner had more curiosity within himself, which he is lacking, he may have wondered how the doors were opened. But he has not a speckle of curiosity left, and merely follows the man out. They walked up dungeon stairs, hollowed echoes of their footsteps ringing through the undisturbed night. It was as if a spell had been cast upon the world, silencing it, except for the two of them. The stairs looped upwards and around, before ending with the final chiseled out step. Out they walked into a castle courtyard alit only by the shine of the moon hanging overhead.
Was the surface above always like this? Did a castle, lavish and grand as this one, really sat above the dungeons? But the prisoner did not ask any questions, nor did he think of any, except one. For his curiosity was dead, and only madness and something non-human remained.
“Why here?” He asked his sole question.
“Why anywhere?” The Good Man asked him in return.
“But why here?” He asked, same question but not quite the same.
“Why, to breathe of course. All humans need to breathe.”
The prisoner gave him a blank stare, where there should have been a quizzical look, “But I am not human.”
“Then we’ll make one out of you. Breathe.”
Then, as if once again obeying by some unnatural forces, the criminal felt compelled to obey his words as had the first time when he was commanded to speak. And so he breathed. It was a short one, as he felt the urge to sneeze when the chilled air tickled his snout. The sneeze came out as a mix between a choked cough and hissing of air through the nostrils.
“That is important to being human too. Sneezing.” The Good Man stated.
“Being human sounds quite… ridiculous.”
“Expressing opinions is also part of being human.”
The prisoner made no further comment.
With the exception of the sounds of breathing that he now can discern from the silence around, there was no disturbance, so he decided to make one of his own. He breathed again, this time deeply, slowly, filling up the spaces within that craves for oxygen. The eyes naturally closed and for a second, it was as if he could hear sounds which should not be there. Before he could go so far as to identify them, they were gone, leaving only the ghost of a whisper of noise. Keeping his eyes closed, he sought them out, breathing in once again. Over and over until…
“We shall go now, the day is almost upon us.”
The Good Man cleared his throat.
“...Is that also human?”
The prisoner questioned.
“Yes, yes it is.”
The Good Man smiled, before leading the two back down the dungeon steps. Downwards and around they went, the path looping to the deepest depths and through the longest corridor, ending at his cell. He willingly went back in, and sat on the stone paved ground. His eyes were locked onto the Good Man, who stared back unblinkingly.
“...Humans also long for freedom.” He stated, as if it was a concept that the prisoner should be able to easily grasp.
“Perhaps I am not human yet.”
“Yet.” The Good Man agreed, before breaking eye contact and leaving the man behind.
The prisoner now laid down, the same chill from earlier that night welcoming him back. He ignored it, closed his eyes, and practiced breathing, as if that would bring him closer to being a human. The Good Man left no trace of his existence, and whether or not it were all a figment of his imagination was too taxing and too human-like of a question for him to ponder on. The only telltale sign of his being was the soft sounds of breathing that filled in the remainder of the night.
The Good Man returned the following night, greeting the convict who had all but forgotten the night before. That is, until the Good Man showed again, proving himself to be more than a trick of the mind. Had he shown up any later, the prisoner reckoned he would have forgotten how to breathe.
“Another walk?” The Good Man asked but it was not a request.
“Alright.”
The doors once again opened for him, and the two made their way to the stairs which would once again bring them to the world above. The stone stairway spiraled, around and around it went. How odd. Did it spiral last time? The prisoner nearly found himself questioning the thought, before reminding himself that his curiosity was dead.
When the first wave of fresh air reached him, he breathed in deeply. It was at the same time that he noticed that they were not standing in a castle courtyard. Rather, they were out in a vast field of silhouettes of plants, trees and creatures that lurks in the dark. All shrouded in the darkness of the world sound asleep. All except for the lone fire which burned brightly up front. It was clearly man made, a campfire, yet not a shadow of a person tending to it.
“Where are we?” The prisoner asked.
“The world above, of course.” The Good Man answered matter of factly, as if there were no point to questions at all.
“Why-“
The Good Man cut him off, “Why here? We’re here to feel.”
“...Because that is human.”
“Yes, because that is human.”
The Good Man moved closer to the fire, sitting down as if to warm his body by the heat it gave off.
“Come, feel the fire.” He gestures to the prisoner, who follows suit with outstretched hands facing the flames.
“Closer, touch the fire.”
The criminal shook his head, “No, it will burn.”
“Ah, but how do you know that? Have you touched fire before?”
He shook his head again to say no, he hadn't, “But I have been told.”
“Humans will tell you anything. That is in their nature. If they had told you that you are not human, would you merely believe them?”
“I am not human.” He answered simply.
The Good Man remained silent before finally speaking up.
“Very well then, if you touch this fire and it burns you, you will no longer have to follow through with my demands.”
The prisoner nearly protested. He had been rather enjoying these excursions, if he had a human heart to take joy in such things. But he was not human, not yet. So he agreed to the Good Man’s conditions.
“Alright.”
He moved his hands closer, and the smell of the ashes and smoke began to muddle the air he was breathing. The crackling fire flickered and cowered away at first, taken aback by the intruder of their space. Then tentatively, it licked at the palms of his hands, which were growing warmer and dryer by the seconds. Before finally, a stinging sensation made him draw his hands back to his side. He turned his hands around to see where the flames had caused him harm, before showing them to the Good Man.
“It had burned me.”
The Good Man needn’t even look as he replied, “So it had. Then I will speak to you henceforth with offers and suggestions, not commands. If you follow, that should be out of your choice.”
“...You said that the people who told me the fire would burn are wrong.”
“I promised no such thing. I merely said for you to find out for yourself and make your own decisions. Even the deal between us was a decision you chose to agree upon. To decide is to be human.”
With that, the prisoner realized that the Good Man was, in fact, correct. How many other things was he correct about, he nearly wondered as they two headed back down the spiral staircase leading to his cell nestled in the coldest, darkest corners of a long corridor.
The Good Man continued to visit the prisoner almost religiously, never missing a single night, each proving to teach a valuable lesson to being human. If he tried hard enough, the convict figured he could call himself a human within his mind. If he tried harder yet, he could go telling the prison guards, who visit every fortnight, that he too was human and demand to be treated as such. But he was no fool yet, not even to the point of tricking himself.
The Good Man came again, as expected, tonight, bringing the prisoner in tow behind him. By free will, mind you, since he had won that gamble of a deal a few weeks prior. Free will that should belong to a human. Tonight, the stairs had changed yet again, now a narrow, straight pathway to the world above. The moon shone in the sky, occasionally obscured by the clouds billowing by. It was not as clear a night as when they had first met. The meager moonlight illuminated the room that they found themselves in.
“Why here?”
The prisoner repeated the same question he had asked time and time again. Perhaps curiosity was budding anew and settled within his myriad of thoughts, now penetrated by the periodic questions.
“To learn to breathe.”
“But I already know how to breathe.”
“Have you? Look.”
The prisoner followed the gaze of the Good Man, and in his field of vision lay an elderly woman in the comfort of her bed. The quilt was neatly tucked around her, challenging the wind, coming from the open window, to steal away the warmth trapped beneath. Her breathing was soft, a sign she was asleep. Slowly, quietly. Even the prisoner could barely hear it, and he had attuned himself to the sound of breathing.
“I don’t understand.” He turned to the Good Man.
“Soon.” Was all he got as an answer, so the criminal turned back to watching.
He could see the mouth slowly moving, changing with each intake followed by each outturn. Subconsciously, he mimicked her breathing pattern. Widening his mouth as she had, when he’s breathing in, and pursing the lips closer together when breathing out. The blanket slowly rose with breath, then falling, then rising yet again. Just breathing was getting almost… dull, if he had to put a word to it. So he brought in the other traits of being human that he had been taught. He felt the chill from the window, which he had no protection against. Night birds and crickets made the sounds of the night theirs. The moon casted tall shadows on the floor, much taller than himself or the Good Man. It was sights that would scare the children to hide beneath the safety of their blanket. He concentrated on these points of focus as he waited for whatever the Good Man had brought him here for, the night ticking by.
Then his concentration was broken, one element of his focus no longer there. He could not hear the soft, whispery breathing of the old woman, to which he matched his own rhythm.
“She has breathed her last.” The Good Man said, no longer silently waiting.
He led them back down the stairs, as the prisoner told himself to breathe. Certainly, he’s breathing, for he would have collapsed wheezing for air otherwise, but to the man himself, he could not hear the sound of his breathing over that of his heartbeat. Back through the endless corridor they went, and the prisoner walked back into his cell wordlessly.
“Humans long for freedom.” The Good Man said, the words ever so familiar to the convict, grounding him to reality.
“...But they can’t always have what they long for.”
“They can’t.” The Good Man agreed, and left the man behind bars.
The prisoner stared blankly, again alone to face the solitude of the room in the darkest depths of the dungeon, at the furthest end of the hallway. One can mistake him for emotionless, at least before he began to weep. Something that the Good Man had also taught him.
“To be human is to breathe your first breath. To breathe your last breath is also part of being human.”
He repeated this to himself a few times as if to ingrain the thought into his mind, teach himself, since the Good Man had not taught him this time. He had shown him.
The prisoner breathed.
The Good Man had not appeared again after that night. Perhaps that was his last lesson, and he had taught all there is to be learned about being human. Without the nightly trips to the world above, time passed much faster, or the sand had begun falling faster in the hourglasses. They were two of the same nevertheless.
Then came the long awaited day of the execution. The guards, assigned to bring him up, were met with pleads from the prisoner. There were no cries of mercy, no begging for his life. No shouts of the injustices and cruelty of the world. Instead, he merely asked for one thing.
“Please, let me be human.”
A tombstone sat in a castle graveyard, proving to be an odd setting for such an object associated with death and gloom. But oddly enough, it was fitting, for the castle had no inhabitants, long abandoned except for the rats that made its dungeons their homes.
A name was carved onto the surface of the marking, though its been made illegible by the hands of time.
The wind breathes in the place of the named yet nameless prisoner.
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