Whispers seem to radiate from the empty space surrounding me, though I know that I am alone.  Everyone else has gone, abandoned me to suffer the miserable fate which is only inevitable.
I suppose it is my fault.  When I die here in this horrible, sad abyss, the blame will be on me for straying those few steps.  For acting on the curiosity that has always been present in the corners of my mind and maybe simply for coming to this wretched, lonely place to begin with.
And dark, so dark.  I remember being small and afraid of having the lights off, of not being able to see everything when now I can see nothing.  The small comfort of the light from my flashlight is long gone, and it is impossible for me to find water.  I will die of dehydration soon, within most likely a day, and then the pain will be over.
But a day is a long time, long enough for hallucinations to extend it until I am begging to be released from this state that is not fit to be addressed as life.  I have already begged and begged until my lungs were sore and the whispers told me that it was useless, that the God that I was screaming to for help did not exist.  And they are right, I know that they are, because this God who I used to love would save me.  So, as I walk through this cave, waiting for death, I know that he is imaginary. Solely for the comfort of those who are not as accepting as me, not as knowledgeable about the trials and tribulations that one must endure on their own and without a fictitious God. Because while there is only false comfort in lies, there is a sweet sort of pain in knowing the truth.
“You disappoint me,” a scornful voice interrupts my thoughts. “The daughter that I know wouldn’t abandon God.”
It can’t be who I think it is. But it can’t be anyone else.
“Mother?” I call desperately.
And then she is in front of me, illuminated by a faint yellow light. I can see the frown lines on her thin face framed by wispy brown hair, as disapproving as it had been for all of those long years before she passed.
“But the daughter that I knew would never stumble into a cave in Panama, entranced with what she fancied was the spirit of adventure, and lose her group. I had always known that you were dim, lacking the intelligence that I passed on to Thomas, but I never guessed that you could disappoint me any more than you already had,” she whispers, so angry that I can see flecks of spit flying as she talks.
I am speechless here, facing her, this woman who was my nightmare for so many years before she left and after still. Even now that I have been condemned to die in this cave her harsh, painful words follow me. Even now that I have fled to this horrible place, left my country to recover from her, from the things that she said on her deathbed and the abhorrent relief that I felt when she was finally gone.
Even now she will not cease to pursue me in the most impossible of places.
When I have the courage to look at her once more, she is gone. And I am exhausted, entirely drained from seeing her. So carefully I lower myself to the ground, place my head against the cave wall, and begin to cry without tears, at first silently and then loud, stale sobs. I should be angry, need to be angry, but I am only upset. Upset with her for being so cruel, with myself for coming here and losing my group and wanting to run away from my problems and for always having been so inadequate that she needed to pick on me to begin with.
I don’t remember having fallen asleep when I wake up, mouth dry and disgusting. It takes me a moment to really awaken, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes and opening them. In front of me is Thomas.
“Hello,” he says, somber as always. “I heard that Mother came to visit you.”
“Yes,” I greet, not bothering to think of how he knows this, simply happy to see him.
“I am sorry for that. I know that she is by no means good to you, but there is love for you somewhere within her. However deep that may be,” and with this he smiles at me a bit.
And so I smile back, a sad smile, because I love him and I know that he loves her. “Maybe.”
Thomas nods, pleased, before he speaks, suddenly serious.“I have missed you. Quite a bit, actually, these past few months. I wish you would have called, at some point, before or even after you left. It would have been nice to know that you weren’t dead, and instead on a wild expedition in Panama,” he frowns. “Which I could have talked you out of, and prevented…”
“My inevitable death,” I murmur.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps a part of me didn’t want you to stop me from coming. Even if that's not the case, I did no wrong in not calling you and simply coming instead. When I saw the opportunity for adventure, I made the decision to take it. And while I want to take that decision back, would give everything to take it back, I can’t.  I came, and I will have died on an adventure. Eventually I would have died anyway, under different circumstances that might even be worse. So, really, calling you would have done no good. It would only lengthen the time before my death,” I say.
“You don’t believe that,” he answers unflinchingly, and he is right. I don’t believe it. I wish I had called him and he had taken me home, and told me it was alright, and I would have lived another couple of decades.
And because I didn't let that happen, I am foolish. Because I am afraid to die, I am a coward. But I suppose everyone is, and I am simply a slightly different foolish coward than everyone else.
“You’re right,” Thomas agrees. “Everyone is a foolish coward, and you are only a bit more so than everyone else. But you have a chance for slight redemption.” 
“How?” I croak.
“Leave your bag here, and write a message. For the next person who comes in,” he suggests. “You still have the notebook and pen you brought for a diary, and you can write something legible enough if you make an effort.”
“But what do I write?”
“Your story. Of Father abandoning us, and Mother’s cruelty, and of your older brother who loves you very, very much.  Of coming here, and getting lost, and your eventual death. Write everything.”
With that he disappears, and I am left alone. But I don’t mind it, this time, because I have a story to write. I pull out my pen and notebook, and I write for what seems like a long time. Then I am done, my story finished, my life set to paper. And so I walk.
Thomas walks beside me as I feel the cold, damp wall come to an end. I extend a foot out in front of me, reaching for something, but there is only air. I have come to a cliff. So I extend my other foot as well.
Finally, I fall.