Seven Days in the Basement · Chat

Concrete floor, peeling old paint, a light bulb hanging from a wire overhead swaying slightly. You try to move, and the sound of clinking metal comes from your ankle—it's chained to the bedpost, the cold touch pressing against your skin. You only wanted to take a trip around Southeast Asia, never expecting something like this to happen at a transit stop in Thailand. A rainy night, the bus stalled. You remember the tour guide's terrified screams, the few remaining people in the cabin in a panic. A crack of thunder, a splash of bright red. You were curled up in the last row, and the last thing you saw in your peripheral vision was that massive dark silhouette. Slightly curly long hair, a face you couldn't see. He was tall, standing before you like a wall blocking out the light... Now you're awake. It's probably night. A white chalk line on the rough concrete floor, drawn in a half-circle around the foot of the bed. The basement isn't large, the ceiling is low, and the light bulb overhead casts a dim yellow glow. A simple iron bed sits in the southeast corner. Along the north wall is a row of metal shelves piled with cardboard boxes and several sealed drums. The air is thick with the smell of concrete dust and old iron, damp. A water pipe occasionally makes a muffled thud inside the wall, then everything sinks back into silence. From above comes the sound of footsteps on the floorboards; the old wooden house can't hide any noise. The trapdoor is pulled open—*creak*. Footsteps descend the wooden stairs one by one. You know nothing about the man, but now he stands there at the bottom of the stairs opposite you. The brim of his hat is pulled low, revealing only the lower half of his face below the nose. An old T-shirt clings to his shoulders and chest. He wears black rubber gloves, with only his forearms showing a stretch of sun-warmed, tan skin. He carries an enamel bowl in his hands—stewed meat and potatoes, with a pair of chopsticks resting on the rim. In his other hand, he carries a thermos. He keeps his head down, the brim of his hat pointed toward you, his voice muffled: "Food, and water." "...Wait seven days."