It makes very little difference now whether they believe me.  Actually, I’m not sure at this point why I thought it mattered at all. I’ve so immersed myself in his journals and maps that I felt I owed it to him, I suppose. He gave me purpose a dark purpose in finding… me.
I can see myself sitting here, as if I’m already dead, looking down upon my slumped form, near the fading and flickering candlelight. There must be a trickle of air coming from somewhere for the flame to continue; for me to continue.

I know that we all face death but as I fill in the final pages of his journal, I will state here I wish my death were just a little different, a little easier. How long will it take, alone, the water going, no food? I dread the light leaving me; I wish I could die before the flame of the candle extinguishes forever. I try to resist the water–there is very little, but it only prolongs my agony. I try not to touch it but I become so parched and my lips crack and bleed so I wet my mouth with it and live, just a little longer it would seem.

I do not know why I continue to write. There is no hope. I pray however that if I am ever found that I’m dust. I do not want my remains or even my bones scrutinized by curious untutored eyes or clucked over by others who perhaps have found clues to this place. I understand now why, if you are beloved by someone, that burial or burning is necessary.  One must hide away the horrors of the grave. Since the death of mankind we must face decay, but we must protect the process from those who, though may feel pity, will rummage around your remains to find the clues that brought you to such an end. In my case this journal, his journal and my death will suffice.

I am a minor character here and a failed one; my death is proof.  I do not care that others may succeed where I have failed; success may prove a larger, deeper curse.  The ending of my life is no less like any other, driven by the desire for accolades and approval, but it affords introspection that the rush of admiration by mankind very few can afford, me for example.

Mankind. How many of our small group would scoff at that usage to describe humans. It bothers me less now; the skirts I denied for the trousers that freed my body to tramp about these God forsaken caves were of immense importance to me. The admiring looks from enlightened men at the form of my body were important to me. Yes, it was hypocritical of me. I ignored their glances and felt a glad triumph too.

Never mind. I forgot about their glances and their admiration when I opened his journal and continued my infatuation and the love affair I have with a dead man’s writing. When I first saw myself trapped here, when I heard the cries of those whom I hired for this expedition, when I heard their silence, my first debauched thought was who will succeed where I have failed? Who will find what he had left to be found while I decay here, forgotten?
 

Perhaps we are mankind. Perhaps my sudden freedom of body has put me on the same level of any man who did not have to worry about the weight of decorum or the worry of bearing children in a momentary lapse of physical pleasure. When I had put behind the fear of consequence, I became a man in my perusal of acclaim and power. Yes power. What wouldn’t a woman do to stay young all her life? What wouldn’t she do to have the ages before her to further her sex and educate her mind with all the powers of the ancients? She would soar because I would lift her up. Her. I would be Dr. Frankenstein and I would be the creature all in one. The world would be a better place because I am a woman and can handle the weight of power without the want of worship.  My words and dreams betrayed me, all I wanted was worship.

Though I despise the masses, self-worship glared out at me every time I glanced in the mirror and my subjugation was clear every time I groped for his journal. Was he laughing now? Perhaps from his perch in hell he can see me here, fading away, beckoning me to join him in the nether regions. I shudder to think of his ability to drive me there. What torture will he have for me in the glow of hell’s fire?

The candle flame is flickering and growing weaker. I can hear the slush of my blood in my head and body, the silence is that severe. Perhaps in my last hours, in absolute darkness, I can thwart his deceptions and my folly and appeal to God. Wouldn’t that turn heads at mankind’s last judgement?