Just a few more centimetres. He was almost through. Days of digging with a spoon through rubble and soil. This had been quite the ordeal.
It had been nearly three weeks since Sun had been Sunknapped. Going about his weekly shop, Sun was struck from behind and a bag placed over his head. There was a strange glow and a distinct smell of cheese. Sun had remembered these odd details in the moments before it went black.
As the eggs and the milk went spinning to the floor, Sun knew this was anything but random.
Who even has a fire retardant bag? Yes, hipsters LOVE sriracha sauce but still, hardly a requirement for regular shopping.
When Sun awoke, he found himself alone in a room. The walls were clad with fire blankets. The floor bare. There was no natural light.
Crude scratches of words you best not say in front of the kids were scrawled on the ceiling.
There were scorch marks and dents on the and in the floor. There was a bucket in the corner.
A huge metal door was the only entrance point.
How long had he been out?
How long had he been here?
The strip light above buzzed incessantly. It hurt Sun’s eyes and ears. Ironic that brightness should be painful for such a beacon. But his eyes had been shut for heaven knows how long.
There came the sound of footsteps and the jangling of keys. The sliding of bolts and locks.
The hulking door swung open and there stood Moon. A horrible smirk on his face. Behind him a number of ‘guards’ that Sun could only assume were clouds.
Moon kicked across a metal plate. On it were scraps of bread and gruel.
Moon laughed. Closed the door. The bolts and locks clanged once more and the footsteps went fainter and fainter
This happened day after day. How many, Sun could not be sure.
But Sun was a tenacious sort. His will unbowed, Sun searched for a way out. Examining every corner, looking for a weak spot.
The nights, as Sun thought they may be...were the best bet. The lights were switched off for a few hours at a time and industrial techno piped in through hidden speakers and the brain juddering percussive beats provided the cover he needed.
Sun had waited for a guard to be distracted and he had nabbed a spoon. Had hidden it under his bucket. Each and every night, under the cover of the rattling bass, Sun had begun to dig his way out. Having peeled back a small portion of the fire cladding walls, he had found enough space with which to work.
Sun had seen The Shawshank Redemption, Sun had been taken in by the steel and determination of Andy Dufresne - his plan was in motion.
The tunnel was nearly complete.
Sun had bided time, picked the best moment.
The time was now. The bread gruel had been served. The cell was about to go dark. The bludgeoning din was about to begin.
The ‘music’ filled every atom of the room. Sun, set to work. He peeled back the edges, careful not to rip it, careful not to set it alight.
He’d burned the rubble and dust to a cinder, mixed it in with the pee and poop he’d excreted in the bucket.
Finally, the spoon, now barely a nub, pushed through to grassroots. He caught a glimpse of the dulled sky.
Sun’s forced absence had meant for a gloomy atmosphere.
From the outside looking in, as Sun’s rays poured into the darkened sky, it appeared as though someone had dropped a massive torch on the ground.
Sun felt the warm winds. The rush of fresh air.
Sun was free.
And the world was a brighter place.
