Labyrinth

The King, still in mourning, built a Labyrinth for his son. Escape would be impossible for a beast, the King reasoned, for mere bestial impulse could not hope to navigate such a complex cage. But for a human intelligence, he hoped, escape would be inevitable, as his son would gradually map out each of the branching passageways as the years passed, ultimately making his way to the exit, to the only path left unexplored.  

As repayment for what had befallen his son, the King demanded a sacrifice of seven young men and seven young women, their futures snatched from them just as his son's had been. The Labyrinth was fair and equitable and blind in its cruelty, designed so that the youths offered up as sacrifice, and the Minotaur they were to be sacrificed to, were all equally disadvantaged. There was no advantage to be gained in familiarity with the Labyrinth, for the Minotaur had no way of knowing which of the countless interchangeable paths the youths would wander, and thus the only way for them to encounter each other was through chance. For if the Minotaur had been capable of tracking humans through the Labyrinth, he would have long ago found his way to the exit, following the trail to his parents. 

In truth, the precise location of the Minotaur, and that of the youths offered up as sacrifice, was a mystery even to the Labyrinth's creators. No one could definitively be said to have been killed by the Minotaur, just as it could not be definitively said that the Minotaur was still alive. Perhaps someone had killed the Minotaur long ago, and was still wandering lost in the Labyrinth, having succumbed to madness and taken on the role of the beast. Perhaps the Minotaur had escaped long ago through some fault in the wall, some carefully dug tunnel, some unforeseen egress, and the Labyrinth had lain abandoned for years, children wandering lightly through its ruins. Or perhaps the Minotaur had welcomed them all as kindred souls, and together they had built a society hidden from the eyes of their parents, choosing to remain in the Labyrinth rather than return to a world that had sent them there to die. 

In this way, the King was more disadvantaged than them all, never knowing who was still alive and who was dead, never daring to venture into the Labyrinth himself. He looked upon its walls, upon the impossible intricate passages that blocked all things from sight, and sat at the entrance of the Labyrinth, mourning the loss of his son. 

The Black Rope

The Black Rope is braided together from your hair, your dead skin cells, every scab and clot and bit of detritus that has sloughed off your body, every matted wad harvested from a shower drain combed out and braided together into a dead black cord. It is slightly thinner than your wrist and hangs suspended from the sky, dancing in the wind, one end disappearing into the distance. You can grasp it easily, loop it around your arms, and it supports your weight. The Black Rope is greased with your oils and sebum, made shiny and pliant so that it coils and bends with ease. It feels familiar against your skin.

It has been made especially for you, over the course of a lifetime.

The Black Rope sheds hairs as you touch it, black lines that mark out paths on your skin. They hide in the furrows of your palms, they cling to your sweat, impossible to peel off. You dig into your skin with your fingernails and the black lines merely writhe across your flesh like snakes. You are marked. The blades will come and trace along the lines, trace along your destiny, slitting you open according to the meridians of your body, following the paths of your veins. You cling to the Black Rope regardless. It is the only thing you have left of your life.
 
The Black Rope stinks of shit, of sweat, of unwashed hair. It coils like entrails. It is real, visceral, in a way that nothing else is. The Black Rope is warm. There is some decomposition in its tightly woven core, some process of decay that gives off heat. The Black Rope cradles you, comforts you. Knotted, it serves as a harness. Pulled taut, it serves as an anchor. You feel its imprints in your flesh, the thin black hairs pressed deep into the welts, embedded in the inflamed skin.

The sky looms infinite and grey above you. You grip the Black Rope, and you begin to climb.