The Escape

With the slightest trip I slam hard onto the ground, pushing the air out of my lungs. The pain, it's horribly unbearable, but I can't be making any more noise, or they'll find me. I grope my hands around the floor with my cheek pressed down, looking for my box of matches, probably scattered against the cold white ground. After seconds, feeling like minute, my hand falls over the rough end of the box. I curl my arm to catch a few matches, enough to be able to see. I strike the first, the fine flares flicker straight to life. Weight of gravity pulling me like an anchor, forcing me to crawl. I look back to see a trail of blood which leaked from the stitches of the cut on my leg. The match dies out, and so does my fatigue. They've medicated me to the point I can't feel my fingers, and it makes me endlessly tired. I look out the top half of the window, watching the rain fall hard. Hopefully it's washed away my blood trail. I plan to sleep here for the night, get this dead feeling off of me. Then by morning, i will find something to use as a crutch. Then, then I'll be free from this Mental Asylum