As the wood creaks under my bare toes, and my skin drags in fright, polishing the wooden surface, I realize the unexpected: the well kept wood, polished by white lace fingers and royal wax feet is filled with maggots.
They eat at the birch flesh that I now disgustingly tingle with the tips of my toes; it wails in my ear, sensitive to my untrammeled movements – I torment it in the morning light of the sole, unreachable window.
I walk, run, fret to the window, but I never quite reach it. When I almost touch it with the tips of my trembling fingers, and try to fall exhausted at it’s sill, I find even more stairs between me and it.
The more I try and walk to freedom, the more the maggots turmoil – I can feel them sliding between the nooks and knots and fibers of everything.
Maggots nip at my flesh while I make a run for escape. But I never reach the window; I am cursed.