Blood.
Everywhere, there is blood.
I try to close my eyes, and the blood is still there. I force myself into unconsciousness for what must be at least a week, but the stains wait for me and greet me when my eyes open.
The cold air preserves the four bodies, and the absence of flies means that they lie mostly in state. I have never seen a fly, but I somehow know what they are, and there are none here. The corpses darken and shrink, but even the mostly eaten body of the lochmodan remains almost as it was at the time that the world ended.
That is what happened: the world ended. These people were not merely possible helpers to aid in my escape. They gave me hope that not all people are cruel, that not all of them enslave others, that not all of them butcher others. And as I sit here, unable to avoid the accusatory gaze of the dead pipsqueak, I can feel my hope drain away. Only now do I realize how hopeful I truly was, for long ago did I sink beyond what I had expected to be rock bottom. Truly, I did possess a chance if I also possessed so much hope. So much lost, in that case; so much gone to waste.
For the first day or so, I pass the time by daydreaming about what the world would look like. Maybe if the iron door did not lock, and the four small vrykul offshoots did not fear me, and we all find a way to escape together. We would frolic and be happy, like a weird little family, and no more beasts or people with metal shoes would chase us.
By the second day, I count every single blemish on the bodies of the two frozen westfalls; I already counted every stone block in the walls and floor long ago (seventy that I can see, likely a hundred and seventy total). I estimate the relative size of their fingers and toes to each other, and try to daydream what a half westfall and half nerubian baby would look like.
Beyond that, I lose track of time. The only sounds are the occasional echo of an animal walking by the outside of whatever this place is. From time to time I cry, but I hate the sound of my voice so much that I try not to.
In time, I had expected that the pain would lessen, but that is not the case. Not by a longshot. I never grow into a gentle numbness and the boredom tears at my spirit just as fiercely as the despair. For a time much longer than the gap between the coming and going of my waves of different visitors, I hear not a sound. Perhaps I could try to flex my muscles, but why?
Where will I go?
What will I do?
Who will I befriend?
I am a monster; even the pipsqueak, in his desperation, still chose not to ask me for help or communicate with me more than to make me hate myself. He did not want me. I would not want me.
Misery is my existence; that is all it ever has been. Even my previous hope was tinged with doubt. After such a long time spent sitting...I come to a resolution.