I wonder if they found it—my note. I wonder if they would even care what it says. I can hardly remember what I wrote, really. But I know I was right all along. I didn't want to believe it, but I know it's true now. I wasn't going crazy. It was all real. And I remember that night, when it all happened . . . the darkness I felt so comforted in, the hope I tried to feel even though I knew it was pointless, and then the smell—it's still burning in what's left of my rotting nostrils. I can't tell how much of my face is still there. Can't lift a hand to feel it. Although, even if I could, I don't know that my hand would be intact enough either. I have a feeling my bones are showing clear through, by this point. By the time they figure out what happened to me, they'll have to do all sorts of tests just to figure out if it really is me. Of course, I don't think they'll figure it out. If they haven't cared up until this point, there's not much reason to believe they'll all of a sudden start thinking about me again. I'm forgotten. I was forgotten before I left. Long before. I was forgotten by everyone, including myself.