The Ninth

Sand worked its way into my ears, nose and mouth. It wasn’t an altogether unpleasant experience. For some reason this was nice, comforting. I had always lived underground, in tunnels and caves. I didn’t pass my digging class at school because I had too many cave ins, that’s when the roof of the tunnel you’re digging is unable to support the dirt, rocks, or whatever is on top so it drops on your head. Now, I knew what I was doing. I’d done my homework and with my knowledge of dirt structure and consistency I was second to none. The first 99 per cent pass grade ever issued, so I knew exactly what I was doing. So I had no problems finding the sandy part of the terrain we were allotted for digging practise, or tests; and I couldn’t help myself. There was just something about the way the little grains of sand felt as they ran over my skin, the pressure from above forcing them into my ears, the tickling sensation as they slipped up my nostrils, and the slightly dirty taste as they broke past my lips and mixed with the saliva in my mouth.

There was nothing I could do about it. Every time I went digging, and I was put on remedial's for this, I had to find the sandiest part and collapse it onto myself. Sometimes I’d start out saying to myself ‘Not this time. This time it’s important I do it right, everyone’s watching’ and they were. But I just couldn’t stop myself, I’d start off well. Moving forward at the correct rate, my spade-like limbs pushing dirt and scree either side. Creating little piles to be carried out by the carrier bugs, and then I’d get a whiff. Just the faintest smell of sand would get into my nose. I’d stop, and sniff again; making sure that was in fact what I could smell. Then I’d drop to my knees and lower my head; knowing where this was going. Sometimes I’d stay on my knees for quite some time; sometimes I’d start shivering or break out in a cold sweat or even both. And always it ended in the same way. One of the carrier bugs would say something, just a grunt. A little like a pig trying to dig up some delightful truffle and I’d jump, surprised out of my stupor by the noise. Then I’d start to dig again. First off in the same direction, then I’d bend the tunnel slightly, ever so slightly. They wouldn’t notice, they never did, and I’d continue on my way. The praise of the watchers sitting in the back of my mind as I kept digging; more of an angle now.

Then the smell would get me, and I’d start digging faster. Shivering with anticipation I’d dig my shovel hands into the dirt with wild abandon, not caring if there was a rock in the way. I’d scoop like mad, until I got right into the thick of the sand-spot. That’s when I’d do it. Put my giant scoops out on either side and slowly rip away at the walls. This was one of my favourite parts. I’d gently tear at the walls until I heard the earth above me groan, I’d smile because I knew what was coming next, and a little of the roof would come down on my head. Then all of a sudden the whole roof would have buried me, I would be plunged into a dark place. My ear lights blocked off by the sand around. The glorious feeling of sand. Beautiful sand, getting deep into my ears. The little beads rolling up my nose, just so they could tickle the hairs there. More and more of them teaming up to slip over my teeth, the slight crunchiness of each grain squashed between. I loved that. Hi. My names Jack. And I’m an addict.