I think I had lived in a time of despair and chaos.

There were six doors total I remembered, half of them to enter and the others to exit in a scuttle.

At least, I suppose that’s how I did it.

Ten guards, fifteen total people. I had no friends growing up. I learned to speak at the age of ten. I could not write until twenty-three. I think I am much older than that now: much, much older.

Yes, I must be. My hair is grayed and gone and the skin on my hand shrivels anytime oxygen kisses it.

Perhaps I am dead.

It is quite dark in this place.

Where am I?

I’m only writing this because I needed help. Maybe you would know.

Who am I? Why do you think I’m writing this? I wouldn’t be torturing my aging wrists for a second if I knew who I was and what I was doing here.

Three buildings.

Fifteen people.

I think it’s all gone now.

Only… maybe.