A broken record in the maw of glacial hell
I hope and have a fair amount of faith that tomorrow will be better. But it will more than likely just be another crucible of pain, if I'm honest with myself.
I don't even want anything anymore. My only desire remaining is to not freeze to death in the icy storms of human cruelty that I have endured, created, and continue to endure. In this place where temperatures reach the absolute zero of human warmth, I am unable to move, because every subatomic particle in my body has proverbially ceased vibrating. This place is an empty, dark, lonely basement - an absolute void of all motion and heat. And just as physical hypothermia will kill you gradually by way of slowing your metabolic processes to a crawl until they halt altogether... So too will loneliness kill you slowly, intimately, with the personal touch of hate designed specifically for you, and made with love.
I'm barely human at this point. Nothing is left of the original Arlen except a broken record crying for help, placed at the bottom of some gaping, uncaring moulin, perhaps as a sick joke. If someone were to find that device, understand why it is there, how to save me, and even follow its distress beacon, they would not be greeted by that voice; rather, they will be greeted by a new one: a needle-fingered Death, devoured by the moulin for daring to search for something human inside, long since lost to the ages.