The Staircase in the Woods

by Chuck Wendig

He built a house in that part of his mind and rarely left its cold comfort.

Every inch of her, cool as fuck.

But it was more than that—he was driven. He got shit done.

The fucker and the fucked-with.

Coors Light, which made him sad to drink because Coors Light was sadness in a can.

Inside him, his mental furniture shifted.

You’re like one of those extremophiles; you thrive in the worst possible conditions.

But someone cuts you with words? Calls you names, tells you how little they think of you? That bypasses all your armor. A razor sliding across the meat of your heart.

They liked the taste of blood in the water.

Hell is not a place, or a presence. Hell is an absence.

Hell is a choice.”

His mental state had begun to dissolve: a sandcastle under assault by the steady drumbeat of the sea.

Here she cleared her throat, because sometimes the truth wanted to get stuck there instead of working its way free.