It is a time when one’s spirit is subdued and sad, one knows not why; when the past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a vanity and a burden, and the future but a way to death.
~Mark Twain
This life is not fit for the lowliest cur off the streets. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy. My worst mortal enemy, that is. I never knew there were so many forms of misery. So many forms of torture. Can it really get much worse than this? I doubt it. Prove me wrong. I dare you. Oh, you wish to know the misery and torture that I speak of? Very well.
Hunger. That’s a nasty one. When on the run, there’s never enough time to stop and eat. My insides twist and cramp and complain of their emptiness. It hurts. And I thought I was thin before. Have any idea how tempting trash starts to look when you haven’t eaten for three days? Didn’t think so. Believe me, you don’t want to know. It’s a revolting feeling. I starve myself, and grow thin and wan. I eat raw meat, roots still flecked with dirt, berries left behind by the birds and beasts. Half the time, it makes me sick. Retching your guts up by the side of the road is never a pleasant sensation. But the emptiness is far worse.
Cold. I’m always cold. I have no money, I cannot buy clothing to replace these tattered rags I wear. I steal what I can, but it’s precious little, and never warm enough. I shiver myself to sleep at night. When I awaken in the morning, I’m already exhausted from my body’s efforts to stay warm. I find piles of leaves to burrow in; nooks in large trees to curl up in; but it is a futile effort. I’m always cold, my fingers and toes perpetually blue and numb, my teeth always chattering with the chill. The rain and wind is dreadful. The rain chills you to the skin; the wind then takes over and freezes you to the bone.
Pain. I’m always hurting. The wild hunt at night is a merciless thing. My knees and arms are always scraped, bruised, and bloody. My face is scratched and bruised from tree branches and the especially nasty falls. The hunger is a sort of pain, too, not to mention the dull ache that accompanies the cold. Never a day free of pain, no. Always hurting, always bleeding, inside and out. My soul quietly dies inside me. Everything I’ve ever cared for, I’ve lost. I’m lonely, and scared, and in the mornings, I weep until my soul bleeds white, as I try to snatch a few hours’ rest.
No need to tell me to go to hell. I am already there.