The Chamber Beneath
by Crystal Craig

There is a word—
exile—
that echoes like a hollow bell struck deep within
a place I do not name.

Not because I cannot,
but because the naming
makes it real.
And real things
must be tended.

When I hear abandonment,
my ribs tighten as if memory itself
has hands.
Not human hands—
but spectral ones,
ancient and sure,
that know exactly where to press.

There is a cry,
long and guttural,
that rises from somewhere below—
not hell,
but something more intimate.
A dungeon, yes,
but the key hangs
on a hook behind my own breath.

I ask myself—
is that a child?
The question lands
with the weight of knowing.
Not curiosity—
recognition.

I recoil.
Not from her,
but from the moment before I see her.
That trembling silence
before she looks up.
I cannot bear it.
And I call it nonsense,
pretend I don’t believe in parts.
I’ve walked through dreamscapes
with antlered beasts
and spoken to rivers.
But to meet her eyes?
That is where I draw the line.

Why?

Because she knows the truth
I’ve swallowed for decades—
that the most faithful jailer
of my soul
has always been me.

And what if she forgives me?

What if she,
in her raw, silken innocence,
never blamed me at all?
What would I do with the weight
I’ve been carrying in penance?

I remember—
before the mountain blew—
running barefoot through poppy fields of forgetting,
mistaking solitude for freedom,
mistaking silence for peace.
Others hear my stories
and weep for the girl I was.
But I still struggle
to see her as worthy of weeping.

Once—
only once—
I let the curtain fall.
Laid my softness
at the feet of cruelty,
as if tenderness
could pacify rage.
Instead, it sharpened the blade.

Now I know—
he was not just wounding me,
he was at war with his own ghosts.
But the knowing
doesn’t soothe the scars.

Why then,
can I offer olive branches
to every wounded soul
except the one I carry
in my marrow?

Why do I still recoil
from the mirror
that whispers:
“You survived,
but you did not escape.”

And yet,
I am not broken.
I am not a victim.

I am a holy paradox.
Grateful. Blessed. A sunlit grove
where shadows still wander.

But today—
I touched the key.

And though I have not yet turned it,
I held it long enough
to feel its warmth.
Long enough
to remember:

the dungeon is not a punishment.
It is a womb,
waiting
for my courage
to become a door.