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tiny fractals.
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each stair a fang.
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my brain, pieces. who am I? a shadow sweeping over an endless staircase, circle upon circle upon circle upon...
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"ESTHER!" A void opens up underneath my feet, but I don't fall. I'm pressed against a chest, tiny buttons digging into my spine. Empty, underneath me. Empty-empty-empty. Breath, fast and hot, tickles the back of my neck. "You idiot! Answer this: what's 164 + 278?"
Four and eight make twelve. Carry the one. Four plus eight makes twelve. Carry the—it all comes back. The pressure lets up. I'm not nothingness and the stairs aren't fangs. I'm on a mission. And further, Sammy's arm is wrapped around me, holding me up entirely. She's strong.
"Use your head, Esther. People locked up do math to keep from going crazy."
I stretch my leg and reach the stair. "I hate math." And then she offers me another equation, and I mess it up. And she laughs. And for some reason, so do I.
The stairs spiral further down. Darkness aside from my cell phone light and her dying cigarette. Her hand creeps to my shoulder. Briefly, I touch it.
The stairs open up to a sea of wooden crates. Infinite. All the size of shoe boxes. I hear Sammy's breath hitch. "Oh, my God."
I lift my phone to my eye, and I stare into the sea. I use the rule of thirds, and I let my eye softly trace the scene ahead of me. I let it glide to the box at the center, aglow in the glint of my phone. An artist's eye.
"That one."
We push through the freezing landscape until we meet it, tearing into the wood with our fingers, catching splinters in our hands. Sammy finally bashes the top open with a closed fist, a small gasp tickling the air. "It's beautiful!"
But I don't look inside the box; I look at the emblem, small in the corner. Two women's faces, blocky and featureless, aside from the shape of a hat on one and the pixie cut on the other.
"You know, madam," I say, "maybe we can become friends."
