Polar Opposites

Lana

I hate myself. I hate my life. I hate that boy; that machiavellian piece of shit. Every time I close my eyes I see the shot rip through Simon's body, my mentor, and perhaps even friend, at the training centre. Time slows down as I see the crimson red blossom across his shirt. He makes no noise as he slumps over the stump. After I shot him.

Even my feverish dreams don't give me peace. They always end with my dad looking at me, eyes brimming with hatred, burning hatred, and saying I'm just as bad as the murderer who killed his wife - my mother, I am a cold-blooded murderer, and yet my blood runs warm with rage.

I've never killed anyone before. Or anything. This is a new guilt, because it's something that I can't physically fix, in any way or shape. When you hurt someone's feelings, there's always a possibility that you can apologise, make it up to them. But I-I took away a man's life. And in doing so, I think I killed a part of me too.

My anguish takes away the trembling and sickness in my bones, but I can physically feel myself weakening. Days without food and water have left me pale and helpless. I feel like the epitome of death.

I try to think back to my old biology lessons; three days without water, 30 days without food. That's the maximum though, and let's be honest, I'm not exactly in peak physical condition at the moment. I wonder if my captors care. If they've forgotten me. Clearly they're keeping me alive for the time being, but without sustenance I might not live much longer.

I want to give up. To succumb to the ever comforting thought of death, and yet, out of sheer stubbornness, I refuse to. I will not ever give in to these people.