Creative non-fiction, Megan Hanlon

Only Way Out Is Through

It’s so dark inside this tunnel. 

I can see my hand in front of my face, sometimes my feet on the gravelly path, but not much else. I have a thin flashlight that casts a short yellow beam – no wider than my palm – that I rarely use. It’s a holy halo and the battery is growing weak. Besides, everything before me looks the same as everything behind. 

This tunnel smells like cold stone and damp, and under that the sharp odor of iron rusting at the edges. Sometimes I catch whiffs of smoke or the scent of sunshine on hair during a spring day. But maybe that’s my wishful imagination.

It’s chilly in here, too. A damp cold that grabs my bones and doesn’t let go, no matter what temperature my gooseflesh is. Sleeves cover my arms and long pants shield my legs, but they provide little warmth. I wish I had known to dress for it. My hands and toes are frosty.

I’ve been walking in here for a very long time now. Broad, fast strides for the first month, I was eager to get to the end they told me would be there. Then, drained of my determination and sick for distraction, I slowed and tried to make a game of stepping only on every other wooden tie. It’s a bit of a stretch though, and took more energy than I had to give, so I gave up after a few weeks. 

Then I thought I’d walk balance-beam style upon a rail, flexing and pointing my cold fingers and toes like a gymnast simply to do something different. But I lost my balance, slipped, and turned an ankle on the dismount. The swelling and limp slowed me further, but I didn’t stop. 

Now I walk without fanfare or fortitude, just slow and steady. Like a running a marathon on a treadmill, like moving because I can’t think of any other option.

It’s lonely in this tunnel, with only my too-familiar voice. I have tried singing to keep myself company, but the notes are absorbed into the walls in a way that reminds me of small fists beating on an unmoved, muscular chest. I think my ears are playing tricks on me, too, because sometimes I hear the sound of a wooden flute as I trudge along, like something out of a movie soundtrack about a sinking ship, or maybe like the resonant baritones in a Tori Amos song about damage. 

On the darkest days, my whole body thinks it senses the path rumble very slightly. Like the first Midwestern earthquake I felt – just enough to make me wonder if it really happened, and look to others to confirm my suspicions. But there are no others here, only me, a dying flashlight, and the weight of my thoughts on this track.  

The light at the end of the tunnel started out invisible, and I moved by hope alone. Slowly, during all this walking, it has grown from a pinprick to the size of a quarter. I am making progress, even if it is slight.
I don’t care what’s at the end of the tunnel anymore. I’m just tired of being inside.