65.

It was cold beneath my feet, the solid ice throttling my soul and my back became separated from my lungs, leaving me fragmented and detached from myself.

There was no way out visible to me as I stared down into the ceramic dome stretching around in front of my forced crease. I was paralysed and left vulnerable to anything that found its way in across the threshold. I stared intensely at it, willing it to hold and be my strength while I had none.

But all the time I knew I was at its mercy. A victim of myself. A captive of my own head and a prisoner of my own apathy.

What was this? Where was this? There was something familiar about it. The terror, the comfort, the juxtaposition of me against me. Nobody was around to help or hinder and I was alone to battle against an invisible enemy which I had called.

Not only called, but courted. I’d desired it. On some level above unconscious.

I wanted them here, all of them. I wanted to fight them and lose, to be torn apart and shared as spoils and degraded and destroyed and consumed.

I wanted to be free of me and released from this adhesive seat where I sat and wondered why.

The cold shifted to warm and I became one with myself again, reattaching all my organs to my spine and letting myself breath life into my limbs.

Then I walked, asleep and oblivious, into the next nightmare waking had in store.

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