Jessica Cambrook, 28 Jun '12

Her eyes, frozen wide open, never stop staring. They break me, accusing me of not doing enough to save her. What could I do, Sarah? My mind thinks back. We were just a day away from the summit before the snowstorm hit, and we found shelter in a cave. The ice fell and formed an unbreakable prison wall that locked us in. Sarah died two days ago, shivering violently and unable to breathe. I fear it won't be long until I'm joining her. The shadows seem to suffocate me with their solid blackness. The only light is from a patch of clean ice on the roof of the cave.

There's nothing to do but wait to die in here, the intense mixture of grief, boredom and fear have me breaking down almost constantly. We... I have a knife in one of the backpacks. The knife was supposed to be for opening our tins of food, not as a temptation for how to relieve myself of this situation. A means of cowardly escape from the cave and Sarah, an empty shell of the person I knew I would be with for the rest of my life.

Voices tell me to get the knife. Other voices tell me to keep going for as long as my body will allow, in Sarah's memory. I hear them arguing but I don't know who to believe. For now, I remain motionless.

The knife calls. So do men trying to break through the ice. Or are they in the ice? I ran out of food two days ago, I eat the snow for water. They call to me. Or am I shouting at myself? There's someone in the shadows. I can see him. No! My fingers curl tighter around the knife I refuse to let go of. They try to make me but I keep it with me always so they can't get me. Someone's shouting that they are near, they're almost about to break through. I can see shadows dancing on the other side of the wall of ice that blocks me in this hell, taunting me with their freedom. Loud bangs frighten me awake during the night and I resent them. If they manage to get through, my knife will have its first taste of blood. Sarah doesn't like them either. Not long now.