Dear. . . whom ever is reading this.
I guess that if your reading this then that means I survived. . .or you're stuck in the same maze as me and have stumbled across my bones. Ether way I’m out of here, or there, whatever. Being correct is the least of my problems right now.
Anyways, I found this journal about halfway (at least, I think it's halfway) through the maze I’m running in right now. We'll get to that part latter, but right now all you need to know is that it had a note inside of it telling me that I need to write my story. Apparently, it's important that I do. Don't ask me why, just read. This will be my legacy and last words, and the task has fallen to you to hear them. So listen carefully, because I’m about to wake you up from this dream your in.
I don't have a first memory of this place, everything in the beginning was, and is, mushed together. All there was was darkness. Darkness and the constant sound of dripping. I stumbled more then I ran back then, my hands always against the walls or the floors, always wet with whatever was on rough stone. The walls turned and branched off, sometimes turning into a dead end making me turn back, sometimes narrowing, sometimes widening.
Like I said, all there was was constant darkness and dripping. It's enough to make people go mad, most do, others make it to the first room and stay there, rarely do they come out and journey past the third room. I guess I’m just stronger then most, or a special type of crazy. I’ve made it past 4 rooms so far, i'll be lying if I said I was tempted to stay in them, instinct pushed me on. At times I hate that part of me that wants to stay alive. But it's. . . bare-able by now, I can at lest see, and I can confirm that the wet stuff on the wall is indeed not blood. This brought a great sense of relief to me. I would have gone insane if I found that I was covered in the others blood, probably spilled by the monsters that roam here.
Sorry, I’m rambling aren't I? I'll take a deep breath hold on. . . ok, forgive me. I don't even know how I can write since I’ve never really done it before. I don't know how I know the things I do since I don't even remember learning them. I guess I had a life before now, it's a strange thought.
Lets get on track, monsters, lets talk about those.
I’ve never really seen one before, but by the screams coming from across the maze, or even on the other side of the wall I’m at, I know their real. Those aren't screams of madness, I’ve heard those before, no. these are born from pure, unadulterated, terror. The worst part of the screams are that they are cut off after a second. I always have to fight back a scream myself when I hear them, it's hard, but I choke it back knowing the monsters can jump the walls if they want to. The monsters are the worst part of the maze because they know you and everything you fear. The have powers and use us like their personal toys when they are bored of the darkness. Sometimes they whisper in my mind and tell me ways they will kill me, they send images of the others, or myself, that keep me awake at. . . night? Or whenever I get tired. They laugh darkly when I force my aching limps to keep moving, they love our pain. I don't even know why.
The monsters are why we're in this maze in the first place, and not just the ones I hear running in the distance. Your in the maze too, your mind has just gone into denial of such a hellish place and has invented a reality many of you share.
Unfortunately, I don't have such a luxury. Many of us don't.
So keep reading, because this isn't just my story, it's all of ours. It's yours. You just don't realize that your the one dreaming and I’m the one in reality. And I can tell you it sucks.
So let me be the first to introduce you to whats really happening around you.
Hey, my names Iza Elizabeth Jones,
Welcome to hell.
© Copyright 2016 swords edge. All rights reserved.