The Floor

And so we were together, the black dog and I, the two of us together at the end of all things. She padded around me, pleased to have the company, and then sat, slumping heavily against the hard floor. She looked up, questioning, expecting. I felt tired. Very tired. The floor beckoned. I needed to sit. The strain of standing was too much. The effort required was unimaginable. I was dizzy, floating, a ghost slowly sinking, my legs giving way underneath me, my frail body consumed by nothingness and sucked downwards, to be next to her, to be beside her. She was my dog. She belonged to me and I belonged to her. And so I sat with her, on that dry floor, the floor at the bottom of all things.

I have heard others speak of this place. They say it is scraped by some and merely glimpsed by others. There are many that are motivated by the fear of coming here. But for me, this floor is my bed and my comfort. It is another room in my house. My name is written here in the dust, next to where the dog reclines. I was afraid, the first time I visited, but now I have laid here so many times that the familiarity soothes me.

The floor is solid. Absolute. No further descent is possible. The only way is up, on the condition that you can muster the superhuman strength required to overcome the overwhelming pull of gravity, the call of the black dog. This place is never far away. Sooner or later I lose my way, let go of something precious, and I fall, all the way back down, bruised and hurting.

I sat there, and I buried my head in her dark fur. The dog was content with her victory. She nuzzled her head against mine; I could feel her hot breath on my cheeks. She lay down, and I joined her. The dry, sandy surface pushed up against my skin, supporting my muscles. I shut my eyes and pressed my head into the ground. It was dark. I liked that, the light hurt my eyes.

The End

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