Have You Ever Seen the Sun Rise at Midnight?

Cold

       The cold goes bone deep.

     It wasn't an expression you had heard before, but you knew why the mysterious writer had written it.

      You couldn't feel your skin.

        The cold cut past that, goose bumps had formed, and the little fat you had left seemed to quake in the face of the chill that crept slowly but determinedly through you. This cold, you could feel straight through your very bones.

        But a fires warmth does not reach past the surface.

       You had built a fire, there hadn't been much else to do and you were cold. So cold.

          But the writer was also correct on this count, you were all but inside your pathetic little campfire, and yet there was no noticeable change in the warmth. You had stopped shivering not long ago, but it had not been any relief.

            So how does one warm their insides?

          You weren't sure where you were. You didn't know where you were headed either. You had woken up at the very end of a large, sewer like tunnel, seamless walls on five of six sides, and a long hallway stretching all the way some meters out until it was stopped by a wall. This one at least had a door.  With no other choice left to you, you hurried through the shallow water and to the door. A door is meant to be opened. So what will you do? Plain script sat at around eye level, neatly carved into the door. It lacked any personality.

          I followed the tunnel until the end.  More writing had claimed.

          You reached for the door knob to open it up, only to cut your finger. Scratched into the knob was more writing.

           In hope without proof that the writer's a friend.

           In the knobs shadow was even more; Please send help.

          Where am I? 

           Escape.

           She, this is I, I've gone through.

             Along the edges of the door it read; Help will arrive.

         Who is he? 

          I am I.  I am I. I am I. I am. The writer had written in what looked like increasing frustration.

         Help.

        They're trying to.

         Trap.

          It hadn't made sense, but after waiting for many long hours you had found you didn't have a choice, you'd entered the door. Water rushed out, knocking you down and it was some time before, coughing, you'd regained your footing, there was a room that smelled rotten, another door at the end of it, putrid water flowing from a grated pipe.  You didn't look around for more writing or try and yell through the grate. Instead you rushed through to the other door and entered, shutting it behind you.

          It had taken some time, and you'd learned better than to not look for writing, oh how you had learned. But you had gotten here.

           You knew what you had to do.

           You slipped out the sharp, jagged bit of metal that you'd picked up a few rooms before.

           The warmth would only go skin deep, but the cold was in your bones.

          So you needed the fire to reach your very bones of course.

          You knew what you had to do.

           The jagged bit of metal slipped easily though your skin as you opened up the back of your arm, knuckle to elbow, and started to peel back the skin some. Carefully, you scraped up some of the coals with the knife.

          Now you'd be warm.

An: So, just for, you know, the record? I don't think this is good survival advice. Or good advice. -T.A.L.A.