In the Dark
Sep. 6th, 2009 01:13 pmIt’s cold. Colder than I thought. It’s been days, eons, since I last could move my fingers like I used to. They are numb, like the rest of me. There are marks on the walls down here, I try desperately to trace them but my fingers are too cold. Maybe it’s because I’ve scraped them bloody already, that I can’t feel much.
I hear noises from time to time. Low wails, rustling of I don’t know what. I can’t see. My lantern died some time ago. Not that is was of much use anyway, it wasn’t brighter than a firefly. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t run in the same way as up above. There are no days, only dark. Only endless tunnels, with no light at the end.
Sometimes I think I’ve taken the wrong path, it’s hard to say. The marks on the walls stopped making sense when I lost the fingers on my right hand. My reading hand. I run my left over the walls, trying to find my way, trying to see what they say. I might have lost fingers there too. I don’t know. I can’t feel. Anything. I felt it when my hands began to bleed, the blood trickling down my wrists the only source of heat I had felt for days, eons. It didn’t last. I might not even be bleeding anymore, the cold makes sure of that. Stops it from flowing. Such a shame.
I don’t know when I ate the last time. The hunger has long since passed from being painful to a normal state. The food rations I was allowed to bring lasted me a week and a half. I had counted the bites, the portions. To make it last, to keep track of time. Now even that is gone. I stumble on soft matter sometimes. I touched it once and it made a noise. They said I would find ‘things’ down here, and I have. That I wouldn’t need to be hungry. They said that everything was alright, would be fine. They were lying.
Time runs cold down here in the dark. Cold and slow. Never ending. Never beginning. I take the next turn, what’s left of my hand trailing the marks, trying to see. My foot connects with something, a low thud. A low moan. The map I memorized is useless. Space doesn’t work the same way down here. Walls move, floors shift.
I don’t think I’ll make it out. I’m not even sure I want to anymore. I don’t know if I want to be like them that succeeded, half blind and crazy. Crippled. Maimed. Crying at the darkness. Crying over what they did to get out.
I can cry here. In the cold. In the dark.
I hear noises from time to time. Low wails, rustling of I don’t know what. I can’t see. My lantern died some time ago. Not that is was of much use anyway, it wasn’t brighter than a firefly. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t run in the same way as up above. There are no days, only dark. Only endless tunnels, with no light at the end.
Sometimes I think I’ve taken the wrong path, it’s hard to say. The marks on the walls stopped making sense when I lost the fingers on my right hand. My reading hand. I run my left over the walls, trying to find my way, trying to see what they say. I might have lost fingers there too. I don’t know. I can’t feel. Anything. I felt it when my hands began to bleed, the blood trickling down my wrists the only source of heat I had felt for days, eons. It didn’t last. I might not even be bleeding anymore, the cold makes sure of that. Stops it from flowing. Such a shame.
I don’t know when I ate the last time. The hunger has long since passed from being painful to a normal state. The food rations I was allowed to bring lasted me a week and a half. I had counted the bites, the portions. To make it last, to keep track of time. Now even that is gone. I stumble on soft matter sometimes. I touched it once and it made a noise. They said I would find ‘things’ down here, and I have. That I wouldn’t need to be hungry. They said that everything was alright, would be fine. They were lying.
Time runs cold down here in the dark. Cold and slow. Never ending. Never beginning. I take the next turn, what’s left of my hand trailing the marks, trying to see. My foot connects with something, a low thud. A low moan. The map I memorized is useless. Space doesn’t work the same way down here. Walls move, floors shift.
I don’t think I’ll make it out. I’m not even sure I want to anymore. I don’t know if I want to be like them that succeeded, half blind and crazy. Crippled. Maimed. Crying at the darkness. Crying over what they did to get out.
I can cry here. In the cold. In the dark.
