What seemed like an eternity after the last I had heard from Fortunato, the regret began to fill my soul. What had I done? What first seemed as a good way to eliminate the man for what he had done, now weighs me down constantly. It’s as if I hear voices in my head, of Fortunato, that drive me insane. I am drawn down in the vault; as I spend more time down there in the cold, mold filled cellar than I do in the daylight. These voices haunt me, but I feel as though I need to be down among the piles of endless bones too. Hours go by, and as I ponder, I hear the slow, steady drop of water onto the cold vault floor, but that's not all. One time as I was down there, I heard what sounded as a faint jingle of bells. Perhaps they were the bells that …show more content…
Then one day, as I stumbled over a wooden box that was covered in damp dust, I opened it. What I saw next made my heart stop. Amontillado. “Why, it cannot be.” I heard myself say. “Fortunato” I mumbled under my breath. I sat on this old wooden box with a bottle of this wine in my hand. Hours went by as I could see my breath make a fog in front of me. I popped the cork and raised the bottle to my lips. The moment that the wine touched my tongue I was startled by the ringing of the bells. The same bells I had heard the day that Fortunato came down here with me and a few days prior when I heard the water drops. I drank for hours it seemed like, but all that I could think of was Fortunato. How is it that I had just harassed the man for being a drunk and taken advantage of the problem, and here I am doing the same thing? The last thing I remember was seeing the final breath that made a cold fog …show more content…
Descend down to the damp vault, walk around for a while in the brisk cold, ponder of many thoughts and then drink. I drank the cold, smooth wine. The Amontillado gave off an aroma of salty, and smoked foods, but it smelled like walnuts and bitter almonds. As it touched my tongue, the wine tasted very dry. I continued drinking. The voices in my head only grew louder and louder but I could not decipher what they were saying. The vault only seemed to grow colder. The ground became slick as what previously were puddles, now were thin sheets of ice that shined as any light reflected on them. In addition to the ice sheets on the ground, the drops of water I had heard now were extremely sharp, dagger like icicles that could be very dangerous. One Saturday morning I went down as usual. But something was different. I couldn’t quite tell what it was, though. I creeped down the hall as I tried to avoid any ice but I could not see where it was. Walking down the vault felt like walking across a battlefield trying to avoid explosives. I still couldn’t tell what was different. But then, as I looked around, I noticed what was missing. The old, wooden, cracked crate and empty dark, glass bottles of Amontillado. Where could they have gone? No one else comes down here. I became frantic and looked high and low in the vault but it was nowhere to be found. Then once more, I heard the faint sound of bells in the distance. I whipped around,