Bunker Bound

The bunker smells like shit: Acrid, sulphur mixed with the stale musk long-spent proteins.

I crave the sterile serenity of when I was first sealed in; before my own stink began to seep into the space, perverting the air.

There is no window to open, no fresh breeze to roll in and carry my senses from this quagmire of filth. I'm the only one left, the only thing left. The universe is the bunker and the bunker is me.

And my universe consists only of a bed in a 10ft by 10ft room.

--

When they figured out what was coming, they immediately began searching for a way to survive. The bunker was only meant to be a prototype, a proof of concept. It was the first step to some mega city where the rich and the powerful could escape the oncoming annihilation. But the end came far quicker than expected.

I'm not even a scientist. I’m not a politician, a great thinker, a warrior or a celebrity; I just needed cash, they needed a guinea pig and rent was due. It was simple, show up, go to bed, writes an essay and go back home with a comfortable weight in my pocket to keep me going for another month. I often scream at myself, I hate the person I was before entering the bunker; I wish i had just died.

There is no door to the bunker, there couldn’t be; it had been built around me.

Each night I pray that this is a nightmare, that ill wake up and find the bunker unsealed; I've long since stopped caring about what I'd find on the other side; either home... or that darkness...

I'm not religious either... there's just not much else to do.

---

The only reason they wouldn't have let me out is if it came early; one of the scientists had joked about it with me before closing off communication. Or perhaps this is some cruel joke or twist of fate, and eager scientists study my ever-spiralling mental state.

Either way, what is out there cannot exist in the bunker, that was the nature of its design; I don't know if I can age but I know for sure that I cannot die. I'll leap from the bed, cranking my head sideways across the rough concrete floor and for the briefest of moments ill think that it worked; only to wake up again in a pool of brown, shit-coloured blood.

A makeshift noose made from the bedsheets is tied, worn and frayed, to the ceiling. I enjoyed hanging before it tore and spilt me back onto the ground.

--

I've long since been unable to perform the most basic of bodily functions, and the only remnants of my ability to relieve myself in any way are merely stains along the ground.

I’m terribly thirsty, but the walls are thirstier, seeping the moisture from the air. My veins pop and bulge against my skin, screaming for anything. My blood is thick, my blood is brown, muddy and oozing.

My Blood has become shit.

Sometimes ill bang on the walls, see if my screams can do more than bounce off the thin confines of the bunker. My fingers used to swell blister and crack, but now they just dully thud against the metal; they're so numb I can hardly tell where they end and the bunker begins.

I'm the only one left, the only thing left. The universe is the bunker and the bunker is me.

Not even my soul can leave the bunker.