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.
I think it’s all gone now.