Death of the Fire

This is a little bit of a short story I wrote.

I awoke among the shattered pieces, which fell upon the ground like broken glass and upon my awakening, I discovered… that the lies far outweighed the truths, and the blood stains on my skin were the proof that I had to back up my claim. All of what I was once capable of doing, all of what I once knew was possible has quickly turned to ashes in a dying fire. And as I stared at the few flames among the many embers, I realized… my dreams had died with the passing of my body to the ground. When I fell, the pieces shattered and the fire began to die. My life was no more than a passing train anymore and I was the passenger roaming the corridors of that train, hoping to find an answer when all I was coming close to was the end.

That fire was a constant struggle in my life, to keep it burning or to let it die… I could do neither. But in my struggles to decide which, the flame remained subtle and barely alive. It was not enough to keep me warm on the many dark cold nights that I lived through. It was only enough to allow my survival to be a possibility. I spent my hours deciding between warmth and food.

My fingers were cut and my body was mangled from falling on the ground so many times. I fell many times a night, from starvation, the cold and exhaustion. I could not sleep and my hunger was enough to keep me awake on this dark cold night but I was nowhere near aware of my surroundings. My body could not handle this pain, this hunger, this fear and I fell over and over again, cut by the ground that seemed to only be a glass floor which broke each time I fell.

The blood stains on my body proved to back up my claim.

I was not capable enough to do this on my own anymore. My stubbornness had failed me. I needed help. I needed someone, anyone. My anger would do no more for me and my stubbornness could no longer help me at this point.

The fire is dying and I am growing cold.