A Losing Game

Why am I here?
It’s so dark... damp... eerie... lonely.
How did I get here?
How can any human take the absence of company and noise. I have nothing. Just a dark room. The floor is wet and the puddles glisten dangerously even though light is scarce. Walls, what good are walls that keep you in and everything else out.

Is this my own doing?
Do I deserve it? Or did I do something to deserve this?
No doubt my thoughts alone will drive me close to the edge of my sanity. Some say a man in a crowd is more lonely then a man on his own. They must have never been where I am now. Rocking, just rocking. Back and forth.

Is this insanity?
Surely not. Surely thoughts of an insane person must be much less ordered. More like a plate of spaghetti then an obsessive-compulsive, alphabetized file cabinet, like the one in which my head seems to have landed.

Where was I before I got here?
Now that’s a question. One of which I do struggle intensely to answer. ‘No idea’ is the answer that strikes my mind, over and over like an axe to a doomed tree,

Am I scared?
Am I? Well I couldn’t answer that either. Was I afraid…is this fear? I suppose it could be, but if it is then this is like no fear I have ever experienced.

Where were my belongings, my clothes?
Suddenly I was more aware if my nakedness, and as if to spite me a draught hit my skin. I didn’t know where it had come from or how it had found its way through the walls of my prison. Gripping my goose-bump stricken legs and bringing them to meet my chest with my rough shaking hand, I started to rock again. Back and forth.

Slowly I composed myself. Standing up and finding support on a wall or what appeared to be a wall even though it seemed too cold, too inhumane to even possibly be something manufactured by man. I used the same wall as a guide, carefully I run my hands across the smooth surface. Dragging my feet across the floor so as to gather every aspect of my cavity, curling my toes so I could avoid injury. If I was even at the status of which I was worthy of a contusion.

Was my body still worthy enough to bleed?
Is this the limit of my anatomy, or coincidently is this the limit that has been forced upon my unwilling stature.

What have I become?
If anything, what will become of me if nothing has come yet? Will anyone find me? That is definitely something to consider. Who would care, notice if I were to leave like I seem to have done, and never return?

No family. No friends.
Well one very faithful friend, that was always there, when I needed a lift. Now my memories are dipping their feet in sweet remembrance of my friend. How I miss them, their intoxicating scents, the tingle achieved by my stomach, each time their name was muttered.

Names.
I find it hard to remember my name. Or any name that isn’t the name of my friend. It’s as if my mind is now a memory card and important data has been erased. Data of old friends, ones that left too quickly without even attempting to acquaint themselves with my new friend. They disapproved of my friend from the start. My family, the ones that didn’t die abandoned me. It’s their fault that in this total isolation, I have almost abandoned hope.

Hope.
It shall now be lonely as I am. Abandoned as I am. Marooned on an island or discarded in a black prison – ironic how my mind would stray back into reminding me of this-this tragic postponement.

How unsettled the surface of the puddles have become.

My pounding head.

The excruciating pain.

I must be coming back down at light speed. This trip has been the worst, but I fear it won’t fail to be worse next time.

I can’t stop.