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By Avery
It's very dark here. And cold, of course . . . what's the dark without the cold? Without that heart slowing kind of chill that hides in deep places, painting the silence there with terrible truths about yourself that you never before had the courage to realize when you had access to hopeful things. like sunlight and food and a place to sleep that wasn't soaked with moisture and the stench of rotting air. Truths that maybe, just maybe, you weren't justified in your actions- and maybe, just maybe, you were going to a place where they'll come back to you ten fold. I don't know what's worse- waiting to die alone, without anyone who could give a flying fuck . . . or knowing that you're being waited for in a place where you'll never be alone, but people still don't care. I never thought I'd die this way. Or, well, one of many ways. but I never had considered any of them up until now. And I must say, it puts it in a whole new, more scientific light if you just analyze analyze analyze. For instance. . . I could go by starvation. That's seems to be the most likely, considering I can already feel my stomach cramping at the thought of food, can see my already scrawny muscles give way to prominent bones. They haven't fed me for three days. Right now, I'm they're more concerned with feeding themselves. Traitors are not kindly looked upon . . . but I'll get to that.
Other ways to go down here would be freezing, suffocating, drowning- every few minutes, I can hear the hull of the ship groan with the pressure of the limitless water outside pushing and pushing at it. Eventually, it *will* fold in on itself- or being beaten to death. With little to amuse you, a scraggly prisoner makes a very tempting target, no matter how much it begs, bleeds, or wails. I can feel the marks all over me- bruises and cuts up to an inch deep. I never realized how creative they can be. It must be some kind of miracle to be able to make wire hurt so bad you can't scream, no matter how hard you try. And let's not forget the 101 uses for small blunt objects! I can't seem to be able to wrap my mind around the fact that such small yet nightmare inspiring things could create such colorful and large bruises. There's one felt in particular on my chest that's the size of a small television screen, and it's a honest to god rainbow, with the exception maybe of hot pink. It keeps me from breathing regular, which actually is a small sort of blessing, because that means it will take longer to run out of air if they eventually cut the supply to this part of the ship. *When* they cut out the air to this side of the ship.
I don't know what finally drove me to leave them behind, give up the whole 'conquer the world' deal. I'd taken insults, and beatings, and general miserableness before, I don't understand why I possibly couldn't take it one more time. Maybe it's because I didn't want to be laughed at anymore. Nothing hurts more than that, really. . . which is ironic, considering. Maybe I've always known how wrong and stupid I was- so I made people laugh, or tried to, because that always made me feel bad, and gave me a reason to forget those whispers in my head telling me that I was WRONG, that my entire race was WRONG, that every lesson I'd been taught as a hatchling was ultimately WRONG. It's kind of funny, actually, that I'd be that blind. Really funny, that I'd rather face humiliation and . . . and other things, instead of just looking for once with unjaded eyes. In fact, it's so funny and appropriate I think I'm going to just up and laugh, up and laugh about it, about the fact that it's the small one dying first, the small and ugly and blind and useless one that doesn't do anything ever except for himself anything at all just laughlaughlaughlaugh . . .
. . . Oh, god, I don't want to die.