#2

I draw in a sharp breath, the air painfully scratching my lungs.

By now, I should be used to the cold. It’s been five days walking without anything, no food, no water. There must be some salvation.

Five days I’ve been trapped walking in circles. Five days without a destination. Five days in isolation. Five days without hope.

I know I don’t have much longer I can go without food. The snow has been keeping me alive so I don’t dehydrate, but it’s getting too cold for me to bear.

With nothing to pass the time except to walk, I’m trapped in my own thoughts. How did I get myself trapped in here? My hell before hell.

Why did I do it? Do I even know why? Can I admit to myself the answer?

I feel like a mad man. Every step I take brings on a new question about my actions and morals.

I’m a prisoner in my own body.

Even if I do give myself an answer, could I live with it? What if the answer is so awful that it can’t be forgiven even with my own self?

A grief, yet again, tugs at my stomach and a silent sob catches in my throat. My lungs have grown used to not making a sound, only breathing. The cold constricts it, in a way feeling like my throat has frozen over.

I grow fearful of my surroundings as the sun sets. Even after five days, I have no idea what’s out here. I have no idea what they are trying to accomplish by trapping me here. I have no idea how to escape.

So, as the light burns out around me, I am, yet again, left with my thoughts.

Why did I do it?

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