Distance

When the rest of the house goes to sleep, I’ll sneak out from my ground floor window, grabbing the shovel from the garage and begin to dig. I’ll pick the spot right behind the overgrown Angsana in the front garden, hidden from the view of the house but well lit from the streetlights on the other side of the fence. At first I’ll have to use the shovel to chop and cleave through the surface roots. Flinging moss and tangled vines all over as I carve my way through, trying to reach the dirt below. The roots will bleed crimson sap, spraying as if from an open wound all over my face and clothes,  I’ll look like a deranged murderer. That first night, when I reach soil, I’ll finally get to sleep.

For nights I’ll dig through worms and roots and bones and dirt until my head is beneath the ground. The humid air will make me sweat as I labour. I’ll find an old battery powered fan in the garage and take it down with me; it’ll hum as it cools me down. I’ll keep digging every night, until climbing out becomes too precarious and I’ll have to sleep in the hole. The soil will have turned to clay; soft enough to use as a pillow.

When, nights later, I hit rock, my shovel will break. I’ll need to upgrade to a more suitable tool before I can continue. With nothing to do I’ll be restless all night, idly waiting for 9 in the morning so I can go to HardwareCity. The blisters on my hands will have turned to callouses and they’ll be itching, itching to dig. I’ll rush to the shop first thing in the morning and buy the most well built pick I can find. That night, now with my sturdy pickaxe, I’ll dig deeper, or rather mine deeper, through the crust. I’ll smash through limestone and adamellite, through granite and quartz; I wont bother going up to the surface anymore. The heat from the air above wont be able reach me now, the layers of rock will be cool to touch.

One night I’ll burst through into a cavern. I’ll stand, surrounded by hollow darkness; lost. I’ll light the torch on my iPhone and start searching for a route; the only direction is down, below the crust. There will be no night or day anymore. I’ll wander the caves for an eternity, descending through the stalagmites and stalactites. Crawling through claustrophobic gaps, manoeuvring down subsurface formations. Drinking water only from the condensation on the walls and eating the sparse moss on the cavern floor for nourishment. My phone battery wont last long enough, and I will suddenly be consumed by darkness. Then, I’ll put my hand to the walls, feeling out the paths that lead me deeper, precariously stepping towards the unknown.

I’ll trip and fall into a subterranean river, and let the freezing water carry me; it has to be flowing downward after all. It’ll eventually bring me to an expanse, with prehistoric ferns and pterodactyls flying. An underground jungle written by Jules Verne. Others would be in awe but I can’t stop here; I wont have reached my destination. I’ll duck through brontosaurus legs and cycad trunks until I find where the downward caverns start again, and I’ll go deeper still. My path will be illuminated by glowing fungus and flickering floating spores; shining like lights on an airstrip, guiding my descent. I’ll keep going until the tunnels stop altogether; where I’ll take my pickaxe and begin mining again.

Then I’ll make my way through the mantle. The walls will be red hot so I’ll tie my T-shirt to my head to stop the sweat from getting in my eyes. The deeper I get the hotter it will be. By the time I reach the core, the heat will be unbearable, my skin will be burning up, my whole body on fire. And then I’ll see you; by then you should have arrived here too. We’ll swim through the magma to meet in the Centre of the Earth and hold hands as we dissolve.