HVMXN BYND

I drive the pick into the floor of castle. Cracks in the foundation form as I repeatedly force the pick into the ground

“CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.” Goes the pickaxe.

It’s just me at first, so “CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.” Minutes. Hours. Days? I cannot be certain.

Then, “What are you doing,” and “Don’t.” and “What is wrong with you.” For some time, it was that noise.

Then, again, “CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.” The pickaxe.

It had been weeks. Maybe months. Years? It most definitely has been years, or it was all a delusion.

“Delusional.” “Crazy.” “Stop!”

“CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.”

It continues until finally:

“CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.”

The pickaxe sings.

“CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.”

A perfect tempo. A beautiful tone.

“CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.”

Sweat drips with every crack.

Now, plunging into the floor, the walls begin to crack. Endless drive now. The perfect pace. Melodic.

Concrete crumbles crumble from the walls. Crumbling, the walls become rubble. Mixing, the floor and walls become one.

“What is he doing?” The questions from the outer. They won’t come in. Not now. It’s too late. My dedication decided.

“Stop. For us.”

I don’t.

“CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.”

“Crumble. Crumble. Crumble.”

“STOP!”

“CrawAck. CrawAck. CrawAck.”

“Crumble. Crumble. Crumble.”

“CRACK. CRUMBLE.”

Silence.