I remember when we had to huddle together on the basement floor because it was so cold. They didn't have a heating system down there. The ground made my wounds sting, but there wasn't anywhere else we could really rest. I remember your breath on my face ceasing once. I thought something bad happened and I shook you, whispering, "Are you ok?"
You said you were fine. Well, as fine as you could be in the state you were in. You said you didn't want to bother me with your breath. I told you that it didn't bother me, that it was actually warm. Something we both needed. Warmth. So you breathed on my face, and I breathed back. We did that every night.
Another thing I remember was the dust. It was so dusty. They must've paid the government to not check on the place to see if it was up to date because no one ever came to clean the basement. I remember you telling me that I needed to keep my eyelids closed, to keep my empty sockets protected from the dust. We coughed a lot down there. It felt like the foul particles in the air were trying to dance down my throat and into my stomach. It went into our wounds, too. I am surprised we didn't have to get any of our limbs removed because of the amount of grime we had in our blood.
The basement was bad. I didn't like the basement. I still don't.
