Four

Like someone popping the cork on a bottle of champagne New Year’s eve, the light came back. He didn’t bother to check on his holes anymore, he knew now that they would always be gone when he woke up. No longer did he care if he would ever make it out of this place. Since the razor episode there hadn’t been any more outbursts; he had taken comfort in the repetition. How many times have I gone through this? There was no way to count. Every time, some things were different; the tools, the material of the walls, the location of the hole, but one thing was always the same: Dig. Once it was a hammer and chisel chipping through solid white ice. Another time it was a shovel and a thick, gelatinous paste. After a while the size of the space began to change too. Sometimes it was so big he never found the letters, other times it was cramped and claustrophobic. The worst was when it was small. He remembered when the room was so small, small as a coffin, that he couldn’t even move his arms. All he could do was to stare up at those red letters, unable to move, waiting for the darkness.
Currently he had a white plastic bucket and was on his way across the space, which he estimated was the size of a football field this time, to the letters. When he arrived he put his hand out to feel them, a habit he had followed since the incident with the pick ax. The wall felt warm and gritty. Without hesitation he struck the lip of the bucket into the side of the g. A small piece of the wall fractured and thousands of grains of what looked like sand began pouring out the crack. Sand eh? Maybe I’ll build a castle. The crack that his bucket had produced began to expand, slowly at first but rapidly gaining speed. Like a pane of glass shattering in slow motion, cracks shot off in all directions, white sand issuing from the fissures at an alarming rate. Oh shit. Cave in. He spun on his heels and ran away from the approaching disaster at top speed, but before he could get far the wall exploded outward, releasing a tsunami of sand that quickly began to fill the space with a roaring hiss. He tried to keep running but the sand had already caught up with him, covering his feet and causing him to fall face first to the ground. The sand washed over him like waves on a beach. He struggled desperately to stay on top of each surge but his resistance was futile, the sand was unrelenting. He stretched his hand out, hoping to grab hold of something he knew wasn’t there. This was it, the sand now poured over his head, filling his ears and nose. He tried to hold his breath but accidentally sucked in a mouthful of the bone white grains. The deafening rush of the sand was now inaudible, blocked out by the mass that had buried him alive. Silence. Pure silence. It was almost comforting, like being surrounded in a warm, soft blanket. He welcomed the quiet and embraced the darkness, letting his eyes shut one last time. Then he saw it. He wasn’t sure how, given the lack of light underneath the pile of sand and the fact that his eyes were closed, but he still saw it. Dig. Yes, that’s it. That is what I am supposed to do, I get it now. I dig. I have always and will always dig. That is what I do. Fingers clawed through the sand involuntarily. Desperate for a breath of air and amazed he had made it this long, his hands slowly worked through the sand. But it wasn’t enough. His lungs screamed for oxygen, his blood boiled. This is it, the big sleep. His hands ceased their desperate efforts, his heart came to a stop. His final breath left his lungs and slowly snaked it’s way through the gaps between grains to the surface.

Like a shock of static electricity the light jolted his eyes open. I’m alive? He glanced around at the all too familiar surroundings. He was still in the space, still breathing, still alive. He stared deep into the white abyss searching for what he knew he would find. I’ll find you, sooner or later, I’ll find you. As he started his search he recited what would be his new mantra: “I dig. This is what I do. This is what I have and will always do. I dig.”

Three

His eyelids opened like window shades, drowning his world with the light. The pain from his previous efforts was gone. He rubbed his eyes with his palm and surveyed his surrounding. There weren’t any tools around him, and when he turned around he found the letters, this time only a few feet in front of him. Dig. The letters were massive. They towered over him, easily four times his height. The size of the letters startled him, and a sense of unease jolted through his body. Panic sizzled in the back of his head as he turned in the other direction and began to flee from the letters. He hadn’t taken more than a couple of steps before his nose smashed into the opposite wall. He stumbled backwards and fell to the ground. Son of a bitch! His vision was blurred and his nose felt like it was on fire. He touched it and hollered with pain the instant contact was made. Fuck, I think it’s broken. He rolled onto his side and noticed a small weight in his shirt pocket. Curious, he reached his hand in and extracted a matte-white razor blade. Huh? He looked up and the letters on the other side of the space. “No,” he said, his voice scratchy from several days without use. “No. No, no, no, no, NO” he yelled as his voice became more clear. “I am not fucking digging anymore! I am not and I will not dig, god dammit! What the fuck is going on?” He hurled the razor blade at the giant red letters. “How in fuck do I get out of this place?” He screamed as loud as he could, until all the air had exited his lungs. Then he screamed some more. When his mouth was dry and his vocal chords felt like they had been rubbed with heavy-duty sandpaper, he slowly got to his feet and looked at the letters. He laughed softly. His laughter grew until it filled the room. “That’s great. I get it. I’ll dig myself out of this shit hole.”
He took a deep breath and walked towards the wall, bending over to pick up the razor blade he threw earlier. When he straightened up he saw a small flap had been peeled away from the wall where the razor hit. He firmly grabbed the flap and gave it a hefty tug, ripping a large, thin sheet off the wall. Paper? Behind the piece of wall he tore was another smooth, white surface. The piece he ripped off did not leave anymore flaps or protrusions, so he took the razor blade and ran it across this newly exposed wall. The blade sliced through several layers of the paper-like substance and he started to peel them back one by one. This is like unwrapping a giant present. What the hell? How many layers can there be? His next incision was through part of the D. He cut deep and tore off a large flap of the wall. Underneath the D was another D, each subsequent layer having the same letters emblazoned upon it. With grim determination he laid siege to the paper wall, shredding through layer after layer after layer. The pain from his nose was washed out by the sting of a thousand paper cuts. Whole chunks of flesh were hacked away from his fingertips and hands, blood soaked through the countless layers of paper in a heap on the floor. It was difficult to distinguish between the red of the letters and the red of his blood. When he started to feel lightheaded he just laughed and worked harder. Finally it began to feel like the whole room was spinning out of control and he let out a maniacal cackle before he collapsed in a mess of shredded paper and blood stains.

Two

Like a light bulb switched back on hours after being extinguished, the room was engulfed in sterile light. His eyes burned from the light which so ruthlessly annihilated the deep darkness. Rising to his feet he glanced over to where his hole had been, eager to continue digging. It wasn’t there. He spun around, looking vainly in all directions for his hole. Where the hell is it? He looked around again. It has to be here, how could it have been filled up while I was sleeping? Who could have done it? What the hell is going on? He spun once more, this time glimpsing something off in the distance, his pupils straining to make out the blurry image. What he saw made him sick. Dig. There it was again, right there on the wall, just like it was when he first found it, only this time at eye level. What is this? There was something different though: leaning up against the wall was a pick ax, something a miner would use. Well, this is new. He picked up the metal implement, examining it. It was made out of steel, heavy and sturdy. He began to walk towards the letters, taking breaks every now and then to put down the heavy pick. Eventually he arrived and prepared to dig. All right, let’s get this show on the road. This should be a bit easier than that damned rod. Lining up the tip of the pick with the dot of the i he drew the ax back and brought it to bear on his target. Expecting the chalk to yield to his mighty blow he was astonished when the pick came to a dead stop with a loud clank. The force of the collision sent shock waves of pain through his hands and arms. He dropped the pick and crumpled up on the floor in agony. A tingling sensation worked its way from the tips of his fingers to his shoulders and back down again. When he was able to regain his composure and stand up he touched the wall where his pick had landed, inspecting it for damage. The wall felt different this time, cold and solid like ancient granite. He looked closely at the dot, eventually finding the point of impact. A breath of disappointment escaped his lungs when he saw the tiny chip that had been removed. Damn. This isn’t going to be fun.

Hours and hours of work left him completely drained. His hands felt like they were going to fall off with every pulse of blood that flowed through them. His arms seemed to be dangling from a thread in his shoulders. His head still pounded to the rhythm of his hammering long since stopped. Progress was slow; the dot of the i had been chipped away and nothing else. There was not one ounce of energy or willpower left in his body. Heart rate slows, eyes shut, darkness. Pure darkness.

One

As far as he could tell there was no noticeable light source, the walls themselves seemed to radiate light, brilliant, flawless white light, throughout the entire room--perhaps room is not the right word; there were no shadows, no visible features, no way to determine the size or shape of the space he now inhabited. Space. That was the word. No way to determine the size of the space he was in. He had already tried shouting, but there was neither reply nor echo. He had run as fast as he could, but had no way of knowing if he was running in any specific direction. He took off his shoes and threw them as far as he could, running to their landing spot and throwing them again and again and again and again. He quickly lost track of how many times he had thrown his shoes or how many steps he had taken, but he kept going. That is how he found it. Right there at chest level in stark contrast to the perfectly white background. Three blood red letters: Dig.
He sat there for quite some time, staring at those red letters. Dig? Dig what? Dig where? What the hell does this mean? He looked all around him but he could see nothing else, only white. He sat down and put his head in his hands, then he looked back at the letters. If I keep one hand on the wall those are written on and keep walking I’ll eventually come back to this spot. Then I will know how big this place is. So what? What if I take my hand off and can’t find my way back? He stood up and noticed for the first time the clothes he was wearing; white pants and a white shirt, very similar to the scrubs a doctor or surgeon would wear. The shirt had a pocket over the left breast that contained a pencil sized white metal rod. He looked over at the pair of white shoes he had thrown. Why hadn’t he noticed them when he took them off? Why hadn’t any of this registered earlier? In fact the only thing that appeared strange to him was that none of this seemed strange in any way, only frustrating and confusing. He knew this place wasn’t where he was supposed to be, yet he couldn’t remember how long he had been here or what happened before he got here. None of this makes sense, but why don’t I care?
He walked over to the letters and reached his left hand to touch them. The wall felt soft and ever-so-slightly grainy. He ran his hand across the letters and was surprised when the red coloring smeared into the white where his fingers had touched. He looked at his hand and found it covered in a fine red powder. He quickly wiped his hand on his pants leg, leaving a streak of red powder against the white fabric. Then he put his fingers to his nose and took a cautious sniff--there was no smell. Next he licked his index finger, hoping that the powder was not harmful, and noticed a bland, dry taste. When he failed to drop to the floor vomiting his liver out or bleeding through his eyes he declared the powder ‘not poison.’
Looking back at the letters he placed his finger against the dot of the i and pushed firmly. He could feel the material, whatever it was, give a bit and when he removed his finger he saw a small depression in the surface of the wall. He put his finger over the depression and pushed harder, but he could not compress the material so easily this time. He spread his hand out and leaned against the i. The wall gave only the slightest bit so he pushed harder. Eventually he found himself leaning into the wall with both hands, pushing with all his might. Still nothing. He placed his back against the wall and started pushing again. He could feel the wall give a bit more. After throwing his entire weight against the wall for some time, he slid his back down the wall and sat on the ground thoroughly frustrated. An idea flashed in his mind and he turned around and scratched the wall with his fingernail. The powder came off easily so he stood up and began scratching the letters with both hands. His fingers began carving lines in the wall, deeper and deeper. The powder got under his fingernails and cracked the skin, causing his fingers to bleed. But he kept going. When he was up to his first knuckle he stopped scratching and pinched the space between two grooves. He twisted his wrist and with a silent snap a small flake broke off the wall. Delighted, he began to break off as many pieces of the wall as he could. This worked for a while until he was left with a shallow hole devoid of any edges or protrusions to snap off. I need something hard to chisel through this stuff. The rod! He took the rod out of his shirt pocket and jammed it into the wall. Satisfaction. He pushed the end of the rod parallel to the wall, breaking a large piece off. And so he began to dig, stabbing the wall, angular chunks of the material crumbling off into a pile of rubble at his feet.
How long had he been digging? Hours, days, a week? I don’t know. The pile of rubble was now a mound of material--chalk, he decided it was--several feet in diameter and reaching to his knees. When he had dug as far into the wall as he could at the height of the letters he began to work his way down towards the floor. As he sat propped up against the mound of debris he surveyed his handywork: there was now a hole several feet taller than it was wide, reaching from the base of the wall to the bottom of his chin, and a few feet deep. He was quite tired and very thirsty. A faint cloud of chalk dust lingered around the hole and he was sure his lungs were full of the stuff. His lips were dry and cracked and his eyes were scratchy and red. His hands had become so dry that the tips of his fingers had split open, the wounds filling with chalk, stopping the bleeding but worsening the cracks. When he reached the ground he discovered that it was made of a different material that his rod was not able to break. It was at this point he decided to rest.
He hadn’t been sitting long before he felt compelled to start digging again. I had better get back to work. He wondered why he had thought of it as work and why he felt forced to continue. I have nothing else to do, might as well keep digging. And so he kept digging. When the hole was now a tunnel some three and a half feet deep he stopped. He crawled out of the tunnel and lay on his back. His body was filled with fatigue, his eyelids became stone. He could keep them open no longer and his world was immediately engulfed in blackness. It was as if he was blinked out of existence.