Through the darkness, the man draws closer with his unruly matted hair and overgrown wiry beard reflecting a lion prowling towards an intruding prey in the night, guarding the inhabitants of his pride. His large dwelling herd stands behind him, frozen at the sight of me. His feet inch slowly towards me as his eyes barrel down, scanning every inch of me, “Can I help you?”
“Well...” I trail off, unsure of what to say. Do I tell the truth? It’s not like I can tell him I’ve made a wrong turn.
“Well?” His feet pause, the end of his beard swaying against his chest.
My eyes bounce around behind him, a flock of eyes staring back at me. The mass number of people dress in tattered garments, the ends of their clothing worn with holes, and covered in the filth beneath their feet. Their appearance shows signs of roughness, as though the events within their lives as hard as sandpaper have scrapped against them, shaping the very texture of their skin. The structuring of their faces trace deep lines of emotional grievance that look to have penetrated within the deep layers of their features and embedded its emotion permanently upon them.
“I was just walking under here, I didn’t know you were down here and...”
“What are you doing under here? How did you even get under here?” Protruding a defensive tone as if ready to protect his territory.
A few whiffs of air inhales upwards into my nostrils, whipping nauseating sensations through my sweltering throat. My hand shields my facial orifices from the toxic smell of rotting decay. Are these people living in their own urine and feces?
Attempting to address his previous question without breathing, “There was a cover that was partially built over, I moved it and jumped down.”
A medium built gentleman approaches the wild group leader’s side, his height sliding past the other’s. “Hi, I’m Jason.” Jason’s mannerisms show signs of a slight more tolerance towards strangers than the feral roughneck beside him.
