Dust coats the floor, the stone walls are cracked, you can hear the scampering feet of mice in the corner. The cell door is cracked open, but as you run forward, it slams shut, a final dooming note reverberating throughout your mind. You clutch at the bars, intending to- you don't know - shake them, or something, as if that would help.

Your skin makes contact with the metal; you gasp, letting go. They're ice cold. Now that you look, you see the frost spreading through the cell, a web of ice. A web of pain. A web of death. Angling your head, you try to peer out between the bars, straining to see through the darkness beyond. Your cheek accidentally touches the frozen barrier, and you recoil, rejecting that particular path. There's nothing to be gained anyway. 

You search around the cell, for anything. There's a pile of leaves near a corner; dried and colorless, the life leached from them. You shuffle through the pile, hoping to find something, anything to help, but your efforts are unsuccessful. You claw at the cracking stone, desperate for even the faintest glimmer of hope. Eventually you give in. You curl up upon yourself in the corner, huddling up for warmth.

Time begins to lose meaning, your fingers and toes are barely fighting off frostbite. You nod in and out of consciousness. Sitting there in the dark, only half awake, dark thoughts begin to parade into your mind, twisted and misshapen figures dressed in gold and silver. Maybe it would be easier to give in, they whispered. Just let the cold take you. It would be nice to feel numb. You try to fight the voices. You need to. But thoughts are like seeds - you feel as though you've read that somewhere before. You never realized how true it was until now. 

The monsters burrow down deep, dig in their claws. You attempt to throw them out, but they fester and grow, infecting you. You become weary and weak, sense and reason drifting away. The cold is digging into your bones. You give in to it, allowing it to take your pain away; you feel nothing but numb.

Then, somewhere down the hall, you hear footsteps. Loud and echoing - wait, no. Shuffling and uncertain? You can't tell. You're sitting on the ceiling. No, that's not possible. There's no longer any up nor down. Your cell door creaks open. Now. This is your chance.

You stand. At least, you think you do. You don’t know anymore. You must ignore the uncertainties. They don’t help. But what if they're true? You struggle forward, nearing the bars of the door. You push against them, ignoring the cold. You can’t feel it anymore, anyway. You stumble through the opening- out. Get out. Shapes push against you in the dark, you stumble, right yourself. Keep going. Don’t stop. 

You trip, hands outstretched, you catch yourself, scraping your palms. They sting, and you're about to shove your body off the floor, when you notice the puddle in front of you.

You study the water; dip your fingers in. It's ice cold, just like the rest of this place. The water looks clean enough, and you suddenly realize that you’re thirsty. You hesitate a moment, before cupping the water in your burning hands and lifting it to your lips. You drink, the scratching soreness in your throat dissipating a little. The water tastes sweet, the only good thing you've found so far. More. You reach down to take more of the water, and the light above you, previously so dim, flickers a little, illuminating the puddle. You see your reflection, face pale and thin, eyes sunken, hair hanging raggedly in tangled strips. 

You try to convince yourself that it's fine. It's okay. You don’t care how you look, you expected this anyway. You just need to get out. Still, you can’t stop a tear from running down your cheek. You watch its progress, as it persists stubbornly though the grim coating your face, and tumbles down, down, down, to join the puddle.

You expect there to be ripples as the tear makes contact, but there are none. It simply sits there, as though the puddle hardened. You reach to dip your fingers back into the water, just to be sure, but they are deflected against a smooth, hard surface. A mirror. You look up, hoping. Hoping that it's just the puddle which has changed in appearance. Even before you see them, you know.