Another classic-style Basket of Deplorable Writing Prompts entry because, I don’t know. Why not?

This one is inspired by a comment written by a certain MrFish in response to an article in the Independent about how Jared Kushner is not the most garbage-person in President Trump’s orbit.

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Arthur and Trent had been stuck in that complex system of caves and caverns for nearly a week, supplies in dangerously short supply now and stupid, irrational, rage-prone fear clawing its way through the brave facade then men had worn for each other’s sake.

“You’re leading us in circles.” Arthur’s voice was flat and dull, any hint of vibrancy had long been stripped like old varnish.

“I’m not, damn it. I’m not.” By comparison, Trent was full up on emotion, so much so that it poured itself out of every syllable he spoke now, no matter how mundane the sentiment.

“I want to say that I can’t believe I’m going to die down here with you, but I kind of can. Of course I would die under a mountain with you.”

“Shut up now. Just shut up.” The dry, cracked skin on Trent’s hand sheared open as he stumbled trying to find a handhold up a nearly shear rock wall that, truthfully, he was pretty certain they had climbed a few days ago. “Aw, shit, man. God damn it!” Trent showed his hand, sticky and black in the thin light from their dying flashlight, to Arthur.

“I’ll take the lead. You stay there, I’ll try and find a way up.” Arthur brushed limply past Trent, who collapsed to the cold ground, cradling his bad left hand in his less-bad right hand. “For real though, you were being crushed under a mountain of debt, crushed under two divorces, crushed under unemployment and I thought, hey, let’s go bury ourselves underground, for fun. It’ll take Trent’s mind off things for a while.”

Arthur found purchase on the wall and was cautiously scaling it, but zigging up it to the left where previously Trent was fairly certain he himself had zagged to the right. Trent  stared intently at his hand, the blood voluminous enough now that he couldn’t cup all of it in his palm and it dribbled through his fingers.

“Hey, Trent!” Suddenly their was life and energy in Arthur’s previously laconic, defeated voice. “No shit, Trent, there’s light up here.” Arthur’s voice was getting softer and softer in Trent’s ears as he climbed higher, still talking but not looking down. “There’s light, good God, there’s light!”

Trent pulled himself up, gently, gingerly, cringing in pain and felt along the wall. “Trent, Trent come on!” He found the spot where Arthur had first started and pulled himself up with his unbloodied hand. “There’s a way out, hurry!” He then reached with his free, torn hand and after a minute, “Trent, I can smell the air, I can smell grass!”, found another handhold. But he couldn’t grasp it firmly. When he tried the first time the pain was excruciating and he had to let go. When he tried each subsequent time the tiny ledge was too slick with blood to provide any purchase.

Arthur’s voice was completely gone now and the light from the small flashlight began to sputter under the mountain.

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