I couldn't see anything. I couldn't feel anything. I couldn't hear anything. I couldn't smell anything. It was like everything had been stolen from me except for the echoing voice in my head that wasn't quite there. It kept telling me to get up, to open my eyes. To do something. But what could I do? I wasn't here, I wasn't alive. I tried to move, to see, to hear, to talk yet nothing responded. Then it was gone. The voice was gone.
The space without the voice was even worse, if worse even applied to this anymore. Everything was endless and everything was cold. Running noses and frosted-over fingertips couldn't justify this kind of cold. It wasn't even the kind of cold that dragged small shards of broken glass across exposed skin, burning it bright pink then slowly pulling it out and bleaching it a pale white. This cold was hollow. It was bitter, never ending. It was the moment where you stand on the last stepping stone of a pathway and the ones behind you had already withered away; you knew you would be stuck there forevermore. It was like that one Taylor Swift song except the music never picked back up.
Please pick back up. Please. Please. Please.
YOU ARE READING
anima
General FictionDulce et decorum est pro patria mori. *no actions, methods, or any other factors in this book are associated with any armed forces, country, or political issues and are NOT true except for references to past occurrences in history*
