The Substance
"Bring me the cup."
Silence ripples out as the words skip across it. The ripples crash into the three others in the room. They flinch at the impact. It is not lightly that the silence is ever broken. Nor is the request for the cup a simple one. Oh for truth it is no great deed to pick up a cup and to hand it to another.
To bring this particular cup to this particular person however, that is where the difficulty lies. The others look to the cup that holds its own audience within the room. The only table uplifts and supports it. The arched window with its panes kept safe by the bars on them cast shadows with stripes across the cup. It must be said too, that the cup was an ill made one. It was not tall, nor did it have a properly made spot for one's hands to comfortably grip it. The cup's contents were unknown in the foggy light that exhaled itself through the panes. The contents were what held the room in such a state of reverent horror. There had been eight others in the room. They had all been sealed away to ensure that the contents of the cup would be found out. It was impossible to tell by standing over it and looking into its depths. The agreement from all eight (now four) was that there was a substance in the cup. They all argued of what color that substance is. They all bickered over the fumes that the substance continued from the first day to the current to emit. It has been six days. Four bodies lie on the floor after having swallowed the substance.
The others look back to the speaker whose attention is solely on the cup. "What will happen if I drink it?" The thought has and continues to make its way through each of their minds. "Will I die?" The bodies on the floor each still draw breath, though they do not respond to any prompting or prodding from the others. Are they alive? Do they dream? It was impossible to tell from this view. The eyes bore into the speaker. None of them expect for him to have a different outcome from those who lie at their feet. It is true that none of them are able to leave until the substance has been made known, and their stomachs all report that the days that have past have not been forgotten. Attempts earlier to pour out the substance did little except make small waves that crash into the rim. At first it was an amusing distraction from the passing of time until one gave alarm that the weather outside seemed to respond to the waves in the cup. Since then the cup has sat still so as to not disturb that which none of them could understand.
"Bring me. The cup."
His words cut into the others. He who is daring to risk despite seeing that the outcome will not be well. One who has spoken not once before this time and did not join in with the debates of what could the substance possibly be. Does this mean he has an idea? Is he merely too scared to go on in the unknown? The suspicion was clear on their faces, which seems to amuse the speaker. He gestures with a hand whose creases show that though they have been clean are now collecting the grime from the chamber. The others look to one another and silently ask one another with their eyes. Will they do it? If they bring him the cup does that make them complacent in his death? Though again, the bodies at their feet still breath so perhaps that will be enough of a fact to protect them when they get out of here. If they get out of here. A collective shudder races through all of them. As one they step forward to reach for the cup. If the speaker wishes to be another link the the chain they are forging for why they should be released, then they shall not stop him. They stagger themselves so that they can pass the cup from one hand to another all the way back to the speaker with as little contact as possible.
"My thanks." He takes the cup in his hand and seems to pray over it for a moment before bringing the cup to his lips. He kisses the rim of the cup and then pulls deep from it.
