The Stillness

           MyfirstactbeforeIwentintothepantrywastofastenthedoorbetweenthekitchenandthescullery. Butthepantrywasempty; everyscrapoffoodhadgone. Apparently,theMartianhadtakenitallonthepreviousday. AtthatdiscoveryIdespairedforthefirsttime. Itooknofood,ornodrinkeither,ontheeleventhorthetwelfthday. 

           Atfirstmymouthandthroatwereparched,andmystrengthebbedsensibly. Isataboutinthedarknessofthescullery,inastateofdespondentwretchedness. Mymindranoneating.IthoughtIhadbecomedeaf,forthenoisesofmovementIhadbeenaccustomedtohearfromthepithadceasedabsolutely. Ididnotfeelstrongenoughtocrawlnoiselesslytothepeephole,orIwouldhavegonethere. 

           Onthetwelfthdaymythroatwassopainfulthat,takingthechanceofalarmingtheMartians,Iattackedthecreakingrain-waterpumpthatstoodbythesink,andgotacoupleofglassfulsofblackenedandtaintedrainwater. Iwasgreatlyrefreshedbythis,andemboldenedbythefactthatnoenquiringtentaclefollowedthenoiseofmypumping. 

           Duringthesedays,inarambling,inconclusiveway,Ithoughtmuchofthecurateandofthemannerofhisdeath. 

           OnthethirteenthdayIdranksomemorewater,anddozedandthoughtdisjointedlyofeatingandofvagueimpossibleplansofescape. WheneverIdozedIdreamtofhorriblephantasms,ofthedeathofthecurate,orofsumptuousdinners; but,asleeporawake,Ifeltakeenpainthaturgedmetodrinkagainandagain. Thelightthatcameintothescullerywasnolongergrey,butred. Tomydisorderedimaginationitseemedthecolourofblood.