Mr. Bag of Bones

What have I become?

I used to be someone they could trust, someone they could look up to. Now look at me. Just a shell of a man who barely has his mind intact. I used to be something so much more than a fleshy bag of bones, sitting in a dark, dank corner in a prison cell.

Oh how the days passed. My name, I do not remember. My life before is likened to a good dream that you would be rudely awoken from, never to recall. By now, I can’t even remember if the life that I once possessed was real or just another fictitious thought made by my lonely, crumbling mind.

Honestly, I don’t even remember the reason they locked me up in this hell to begin with. Was I a thief? A murderer? A rapist? How much of a monster am I?

A slow gurgling in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t gotten food delivered from the small slot in my door for the past few days. Or minutes. Maybe it has just been a few seconds? Time does not exist to me anymore. Not that I’m complaining. I wouldn’t mind if they left me here to die anyways. Or maybe I would? I don’t know how it feels to die of starvation. Is it worse than insanity? I don’t know. I honestly don’t care anymore.

The darkness of my cell is overwhelming everyday (or night for all I know, there are no windows in my little hell), but today an even greater darkness sits on my eyes. As if the Grim Reaper himself is covering my eyes, inadvertently telling me that even the usual darkness is too bright for these tired, old windows to the soul.

I’m not sure how much longer I can live without some food. It’s as if I can feel my blood begin to boil and my bones begin to break. Or something.

I’m honestly not sure anymore

I honestly don’t know.

This. This darkness. It is even brighter than light. Is this the relief waiting for me? Pitch black. This. This darkness, is relief.

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