By Emma Omid

I creep into the room in such a way that I wonder if the floor really is as fragile as I’m pretending it is. Like ice cracking underneath my feet, threatening to give way and flood my lungs with fear of capture, so strong that I might freeze with terror.

But I mustn’t. How could I, after all I have been through, all I have done? All I have fought and died for? No, I mustn’t panic. Just tiptoe through the room and act like the creaky floor is as quiet as a falling feather.

He stifles a groan, causing my feet to freeze and my legs to nearly buckle under the overwhelming pressure. My knees clatter against each other as I wait for the guard to lower his subconscious weapon.

His head rolls back and to the side. I wait just a moment, just long enough to tell if he is truly asleep, before stalking closer to the door. My eyes linger on his body, slowly rising and falling in a suspended state.

I reach towards the doorknob, ready to flee as soon as the creaky door disturbs his never-ending rest. My hand reaches around the handle and… falls straight through it. I try again, only to find that my misty appendage can do nothing but wave in front of my face like a piece of cotton floating in the air.

All I have been through for this? For my useless arm to fail me when I finally reach freedom? All I have done is but stones on a riverbed. All I have fought for, gone like the ash surrounding a blinding inferno. All I have died for, forgotten, as if a distant memory that is as meaningless as my life. All I have died for.

All I have died for?