Soot

Another day in February, cold by all winter’s standards, and I am undoubtedly noticed by all who pass by. For me, a nervous chap, the jarring and deep black of my soot-covered rags stand firm amongst the snow-white surroundings and give unwanted tremors from the looks of every Gentlemen who notices me, the little black speck preparing for another terrifying expedition. I stand for what seems like an eternity, as I wound the protective bandages around my fingers and prepare my equipment for entry. The climb is always the hardest, the small light fragments transgressing ever less as I am slowly entombed with every quaking stumble upwards. Finally, I feel my surroundings and realize how alone I am. Slowly, I begin to scrub. Back and forward, back and forward, back and forward for hours on end. It is monotonous, and the slow, creeping fear of death amidst the crushing labyrinth of bricks begins to subside as I throw myself into my work. Ultimately, the intoxicating backwash of soot calms to a slight gust and I conclude that my duty is truly complete for the time. Now, my job is finished, and I can be happy when I get out. Slowly, I lower myself further and further down, but with a violent thud, I hit the side of some turn. I nudge at my feet but cannot move them out of this rock. The prodding grows ever more furious until finally I let out a panicked shriek and cannot help but cry as I become convinced of the terminal finality of my predicament, that being until I get free. Now the day is finished, I slowly walk out of the house, collecting my 3 pence for the day and stumbling home in that cold and desolate landscape. I reflect on another day, and another chilling experience, my thousand eye stare piercing into the winter sun.