Tate

Pit

The pit is a terrible, horrible, absolutely monstrous place.

There's not much that's different about the pit itself, its just like any old rotten barn. The wood is barely intact, the doors are falling off their hinges, the dirt floor is cracked and Has many Duvets- which I can only supposed to not exist years ago. I would be surprised if it stood till spring.

No, nothing is strange about the building. Nothing is strange around the building either, in fact everything within a 50 mile radius is completely and totally average. It's quite boring. The thing that makes the pit the most terrible, horrible, absolutely monstrous place, is what goes on inside. Every year for three weeks the government gathers all the criminals together. And we, the criminals stand herded against one wall, like cattle in a pin. The pit is where our disastrous and life endangering journey begins.

The pit is where it all begins. Inside the pit, there are rows and rows of tables. The tables themselves are old, they squeak and shake if touched, and enough rust coats them to the point where it cuts skin. The walls tend to let in more sun then they keep out, and do nothing to keep out cold winds.

Today is a cold day. It's more windows in between days, right when fall is turning into Winter, and when the wind grows claws that Rake into your skin. It's a type of nights where Jackfrost settles into your bones, and you can watch as your fingers turn blue.

I want a jacket.

The thought runs inside my head over and over, stirring a blizzard inside my skull. My hands are shackled to my ankles, and my ankles to my neck. My neck is chained to the man in front of me, as well as behind me. I wish my hands were unshackled so that I could rub the ice off of my eyelashes.

I want a jacket.

I bow my head, and close my eyes, trying to picture that I wasn't here. that this wasn't happening. We had been marching for hours-days-months. For all I could tell it had been years. Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I winced as the metal collar bit into my skin. Any wrong move and I could end up choking myself.

The only noises were small whimpers, and feet trudging through snow. No one spoke. No one cried. I suppose we were all past that stage. Picking up my head for a brief moment I looked around. Next to me were rows of people- women, children, men, young, old, tired, and withered, we marched. Our eyes were hollow and as empty as the presidents head. Were we emotionless? I'm not sure. I don't think I am. Because while I may look empty, I feel like dying. I want curl up into a ball and cry. I want to wail and scream and trash about until my pain and existence has been craved into the being of our planet.

I can't find the energy to cry.

All I can do is march.

Place one foot in front of the other.

It's hard. And the constant promenade get much harder.

In an instant, I can no longer pick up my feet, and I settle to dragging them through the snow, allowing the minuscule flakes to soak into my shoes and socks. Slowly picking up my head once more, ignoring the protests my neck gives me, I look briefly over my shoulder to see why my feet can no longer leave the snow ridden ground. I see my reason. The larger women behind me has fallen. She has stopped breathing and her heart has ceased pumping. My shoulders sag forward, and my gaze droops back to the snow the disappears under my sneakers.

I lose track of time, and I lose count of how many bodies I have begun to drag behind me. I continue to pull forward, having to lean into each step, in order to move the slightest. The phantasm of horror Is incomprehensible. My mind and body has begun to go numb and the snow no longer bothers me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm dying of if it's because the body heat my exercise is producing. Right now I'm not sure which one it best. The woman behind me is no longer recognizable. Her face has become smudges of blood, and streaks of Marred flesh. It's repelling.

Blinking my eyes, I take a deep breath. I no longer feel like crying. In fact I no longer feel like doing anything. Inside my body has been filled to the brim with thousands of buzzing bees. They hum and they sing, and they sill me with a sense of warmth. I can't say this is healthy. If your feeling this- Id suggest seeing a doctor.

Hearing the familiar gurgle of an RV, I turned my head to the side, watching. I'm not sure who it is, but it's a man who looks alive. His grey hair is well trimmed and groomed to perfection, and his bulky form is muscular and broad. Must be the government, coming to check up on their favorite criminals.

The car pulls up so that it matches my speed, about 10 feet away. I glare at it, and I pray it to explode.

When the blackened window rolls down and the burly man sticks his head out I'm a tad surprised. Not that I show it.

"Hey! Kid!"

I give him a puzzling glance.

"Yes you! Hey kid, I've got a question for you." Giving him a quick and impatient state I wait to hear his irrelevant question. He smiled flashing me a set of yellow teeth. "How do like the chains? You into that type of shit? I bet you are, you look it." My scowl deepens carving itself further into my face. Burying my hate deep inside of me I turned back to him.

"Oh god I'm so hot and bothered!" I smiled. "It's way to kinky, the chains! I cry, "they rub me in the wrong way!" to further my point I wiggle in the metal clamps. I watch, amused as his mouth drops open. The tires squeal as he begins to speed away.

"Hey mister!" I call out. when I was sure he was looking I stick out my tongue and give him a big old flapping bird. And with a huff I continue the treacherous March.

--------------

¿Comment?

?Comment¿