Everything is still and silent. Sound being drowned out by the pressing of the darkness. The cellar has always been humid, making the air sticky and inescapable like an itch. Footsteps approach and he kneels to the ground shelf to find something. He believes he is alone, though I know better. He never comes here, never feeling the usually humidity, or smelling the usual decay or rust. He will be the death of me, as I will be to him. I’ve been chained to him for so long, staying silent while he takes no notice of my presence. I like the loneliness that he seems to despise, I like the unknown of the darkness that he seems to fear, I like the press of the crowded humidity that he seems to run from. All I have to fear or despise or run from is the brilliance that is his pride, it burns me, drys me, keeps me aware, the feelings I so hate. He will be the death of me, but only if he realizes he could be.