I suppose someone should start talking about what happened in December. Is it really January? Have we truly come this far? I don't know if a lot of time or if little time has passed since we were freed from the jungle. I don't know if I want to know how long it's been.
I don't even remember how it started. But once I knew I was in it, it felt as though that's how things had always been. Terrified of everything, running from each shadow of nothing flickering in the dim light, slinking through the concrete corridors with a pile of rocks resting in my stomach. Burning. Alex and Dr. Rivers felt like distant memories, even as I continued to care for them in the little time I was willing to spend around them. I went into the infirmary as little as possible, as in that state, it frightened me. Not any more than any other room, and certainly less than the snaking, ever-changing hallways. But I felt that if I was on the move, at least I had a chance of finding some safety. Of course, this was foolish. Some distant glimmer of a hope - sometimes the mirage of daylight trickling through the crack in a door, sometimes an echo of the voice of one of my family - would tease at the edge of my senses. Ever obedient to my fear and tearful desperation, I would chase, only to find that, no. This is how things are. This is how they always shall be. Joy is a lie, and all I can hope for is to die quickly in this ever-growing forest of madness. No one can hear me cry and bang my fists against the walls until my knuckles are bloodied and scream as the walls begin to close in so I can see them in all their horrific splendor and artistry.
I couldn't stand it anymore. The walls are closing in. I wanted to die. The wolves are raising their hackles. I saw the scalpel. The final shreds of reality are ripped away by the wind. I was gone.
But I wouldn't turn the blade on myself. Not then. I don't want to talk about this anymore