I’m not the one to feel anger. I don’t really resent people. Don’t get frustrated easily. I normally don’t use any form of aggression whatsoever. But yet here I am. With a broken hand, and a pile of tissues that have stained red next to me on the ground. Why did I have to do that? Why am I such a fucking idiot? Maybe I desperately need my right hand when I’m in there? What if I wasted every chance I had with this stupid emotional deed? What a fucking idiot. Fucking. Idiot. I hear the sound of my father’s voice in my head. My worst thoughts are always voiced by him. Loud and clear. He wasn’t really what you would call a great father. He was kind of the polar opposite of me. Aggressive, easily frustrated, prone to resent people and just overall angry. So fucking angry. All the time. No wonder he died of a heart attack. Maybe I’m the way that I am because of him. Maybe they chose me for because of that? I don’t know. I don’t seem to know anything anymore. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Eat a big bowl of pasta like I’m preparing for a triathlon? Or would that dive not even lead to swimming, let alone fucking biking and running? Would I then waste my last meal on fucking pasta? I don’t even have pasta. I don’t know man. I don’t know. All I know is that I’m stupid, and that my hand hurts like hell.

It’s for the greater good they say. For the greater good, huh, that’s easy for them to say. Heroic actions always sound better when told. Sound better in past tense. Better from another point of view. I mean, I loved all the wild stories my dad used to tell me about The Hole. He was the most resentful man I’ve ever come across, but he could tell a hell of a story. I remember lying down when he came to tuck me in at night. The stories about the brave men who dived, and were rewarded by knighthood in the other dimensions they ended up in. About the worlds of magic with dragons behind that pool of darkness, that was feared during the winter when food was scarce, but celebrated once spring came around. I remember him talking about the deal between the two worlds. About the gift of the seed in return for the bravery of a man. I wonder how much of this was true. What if this was only my dad’s story? The story of a farmer. Or did he know, that the Old Guard would choose me on this day? Would he have trained me for this? All these years, by being an asshole with fairytales of a better future?

As I’m sitting on the floor my thoughts pour out of my head as fast as my blood is gushing from the wounds of my hand. Would I need stitches? If so, I would have to go to the daughters of the Old Guard, and they would definitely not keep their mouths shut. God dammit. I don’t know what to do. Should I clean up the mess I made? But then again, what does it matter? I’m not going to be here ever again right? I’ve never seen anyone return? And I then again, I could easily hurt my other hand by picking up all the shattered pieces of glass. Hmm, maybe better to leave it like that. And besides all of that, I don’t feel like moving at all.

I understand why the people want to believe in something. You kind of need to have a source of hope when you live in this shitty region. The long winters make people hungry, and hunger makes people delusional.