‘Forgotten’ by Anja


Dear Diary
Every morning I am woken by the same monotonous bell; a reminder that every day I spend
here is another day closer to my imminent death. It’s cold here. In fact it has been this cold
for so long that I do not quite recall what warmth feels like. The extensive length of this
tunnel is murky and foreboding, endless in its black expanse. The once strong voice of our
leader, Niccola, is beginning to grow weary. She reassures us in an attempt to keep our
spirits up but it’s no use. The pit in my stomach grows deeper and deeper by the day,
becoming insufferable. I long for the feel of fresh air, but the thought feels so distant now.
Unimaginable, even. I feel as though my life is the same constant nightmare, playing on
repeat. I refuse to believe this is my reality; the air up above us is too toxic to breathe. Day number 23

Dear Diary
The pile of those of us who have fallen is growing increasingly tall. Trepidation looms. Who
will be next? Who will give in to the irresistible urge to go up above? Every day it gets harder
to breathe and I’m not sure how much longer I can stay down here. It is so packed in here
that we are all sitting shoulder to shoulder, though I can’t seem to shake the feeling of
loneliness. My isolation is a vice on my heart, squeezing so tight. It has replaced the light
inside of me with a cold, empty darkness like the tunnel I so desperately want to get out of.
Even though the atmosphere is extremely tense, I feel a newfound sense of hope today, as if
a massive weight has been lifted off my chest. I’m sure things will get better soon. Day number 958

Dear Diary
Chaos and havoc are just two words that come to mind when surveying the current situation.
Rationing has soon become starvation, causing fights between those who went without. I
tried so desperately to get them to stop, but failed miserably. My throat is raw and ripped
from screaming, my eyes bloodshot. Niccola now lays on the floor, staring into space with a
certain unsettling emptiness.That is when she’s not crying or yelling uncontrollably. Her eyes,
a window into her soul, are now lifeless. We are completely alone now. There is no hope for
us. Any of us. Children, mothers, fathers, all forgotten. Our names, lost to the whirlwind of a
global crisis. Day number 8423