You’re in a coma. Been here for weeks. Lost in the hallways of your own mind. Stuck.
You can hear the world around you. But you can’t react. The others are afraid. You hear them whispering day after day.
They don’t know you can hear them. They have forgotten you.
It’s cold. The journey has been lost. The others survive, speaking of rescue. Nobody is coming. They know that.
You know that.
They all knew this journey into the unknown meant exactly that.
You listen as the days dredge on. Between the snowstorms you hear less and less voices. They are afraid. They are starving.
Suddenly there are only four remaining. Then three. Two men die in the night storm; the last of them huddled nearby.
They stopped feeding you days ago. You’re starving too, but the world remains oblivious. The last man promises food. For you both.
The next day he cries. Then all you hear is the wind. For a time. The man returns with food, feeding you. Your body rejoices.
For a moment.
The man sobs, pouring more food into your mouth. Massaging your throat to move it down. He says he is sorry. There is no more food. It had to be this way.
As you both sit in the abyss of the snowstorm, the man works. You can’t see it, but you can hear it. He mumbles to himself, crying. You can’t move. But now you realize.
He is eating you.
You are eating you.