The Hole

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She couldn’t remember when the hole had gotten this big. She couldn’t even recall how she’d gotten herself into the hole in the first place. Had the ground suddenly opened up and swallowed her, or had she been standing in one place for so long that she’d worn the hole through on her own? Maybe she’d been born in the hole; she certainly couldn’t remember not being in it. But she definitely remembered that it was once a lot smaller, and much shallower. She couldn’t even see out of the top of the hole now.

Even standing on tiptoes and stretching her hands way over her head, she couldn’t reach the top of the hole. She could recall a time when the hole only reached as high as her waist, and she could no longer remember why she didn’t just climb out of it then, when it was easy to do so.

Instead, she had elected to dig in deeper. She felt safer in the hole. No one could get in and harm her. It wasn’t until she stopped digging and noticed how big the hole had become that she realized she was unable to get herself out. Not that she really minded being in the hole, necessarily. It was familiar to her, at least, and there was some comfort in that. It was home to her. But now she was starting to think that it would be nice to have some company.

So she began to claw at the sides of the hole, trying to pull herself up. The sides were slick and muddy, and she broke off fingernails trying to gain some traction. She only succeeded in making the hole wider, and got mud on her clothes. This was not the solution, clearly.

Maybe she could convince someone to get in the hole with her. People used to pass by the hole on a daily basis, stop and say hello, see how she was doing. Not for a long time, though. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she’d had any visitors. She thought about it very hard, and remembered one kind person, a friend, asking her years ago: “Why don’t you climb out of that hole? Here, I’ll help you.” 

Mystifyingly, she’d turned the friend away. “Go away. This is my hole. I’m happy here. You don’t understand me at all.” Why did she say that? Why didn’t she say, “Yes, please help me out of this hole”?

There must be people still up there, she thought. She looked up. The top of the hole was now very far away. If she were standing on her own shoulders, she wouldn’t be able to see out of the top.

“HELLO!” she bellowed. No one answered her. She saw shadows moving about on the surface; she knew there were people nearby. “HEY! DOWN HERE! I’M IN THIS HOLE!” Still no one answered her.

She sat down to think. What a stupid idea. Why would anyone want to be in the hole with her? Why would anyone want to be in the hole, period? The hole was not a nice place to be. She thought it was safe and comfortable and familiar, she was wrong. It was dark and slimy and cold and unforgiving. She wanted out of this goddamned hole. She didn’t want it to be her home anymore.

She could barely see the sunlight winking in from the surface of the hole now. So far in the distance, it looked like a tiny match in a darkened room. She squelched her back against the muddy wall of the hole, and waited for someone to throw her a rope.

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