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I no longer snuggle up to the mysterious crack in the bottom of the door and fantasize.
I no longer thirst for the light, and beg to witness my surroundings.
I am just fine in the dark.
In the corner.
Blindly writing.
Crying.
…
The gory revelation of my new home has rendered it nearly impossible to continue for long.
The smells make so much sense now.
No matter how much I think about clean water, and a nice, fresh sandwich, I will not be able to convince my brain to neglect the amount of death that eyes absorbed.
I will not be able to eat from the mystery pile, or drink from the puddles of blood.
If I don't get out within a few days at most, I will die for sure.
…
I'm frightened of his return. I realized immediately upon the opening of the door that this is simply a dumping ground. I am not being tortured, or intentionally held. He does not know I am alive. Maybe he doesn't even care. I still haven't seen it but, judging by the immense savagery of the butchered bodies, my neck wound was (is) probably worse that I thought. I'm guessing that the injury on my neck was deep-seated enough to assume that I'd be dead enough to fit the requirements of living in this basement. Since it seems like the only requirement for LIVING in here, is being DEAD.
A second chuckle. Not bad, 2 in who knows how many weeks.
If I end up dying in here, my "gift" did not save me at all. It just made me see what Hell looks like a little early.
Some gift.
I hardly have the strength to attempt to escape, but if I get in some kind of emergency situation, I figured I should have some kind of weapon other than my hands.
After all, my left hand, even though I can clumsily move it, is completely atrophied and deformed.
How the fuck did cutting me in the neck affect what my fucking HAND looks like?
The small amounts of movement I can get out of it just seem to mimic the movements that used to occur when my hand would fall asleep. It's not numb, but its hard to feel the muscles that control its functions. And my right hand hasn't felt alive in days. I can't even open the pincer farther than a few inches without it leaking out a pathetic whining sound similar to the last ounce of air being let out of a balloon. I can hold a pen with it, and that's about it.
I think I'm running out of paper.
I sat in the darkness, drudging up the strength and will to find something to use as a weapon in case he returned and saw that I was still amongst the living. I know there is nothing usable around the room. I have circled the room an uncountable amount of times on my hands and knees, feeling every indention of the moist walls, looking for a loose brick or a weak spot.
I need to go one step further.
I need to hold my breath…
And I need to search the bodies…
10:13 AM
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