The Forgotten Lamp

1.

Darkness.

All this wretched world has given me is darkness. I hardly have enough to buy a candle, or even a single match to light the old beaten lamp on the rickety old table in the middle of the room. I lay silent on the bed, making myself small against the cold wood with nothing but a scrap of cloth I foolishly call a blanket. Exhaustion looms, trying to lull me into the depths of sleep, but my hunger has yet to pass. I laugh, painful and empty, as I told myself I was lucky to be suffering alone. No other mouths to feed but my own. It was a miracle that I had four walls and a roof to protect me from the elements, but it's hardly what you would call a home. The only reason I remained in this house is because the lords were kind enough to let me stay. I am warmed by the indignance flowing through my body. They want nothing to do with me. I disgust them, this house disgusts them. They care not who lives or dies here, just as long as they are not part. I almost scoff.

But there is nothing left in me to do so.