On my third Tibetan conquest in the year 1847 for further evidence and proof on the existence of the abominable snowman, or “yeti” as referred to in local legend, I lost my foot and lower portion of leg from mid shin down to a parasitic infection.
The sherpas became extremely concerned with the discolouration a few days after my ankle was tore open in nearly a 2 inch gash by a rogue piece of shale stone. The pain was bearable, and my ability to walk was only marginally compromised, so onwards I pressed toward the glacial landscape where the last reported sighting had occurred.
The expedition previous to this one was an unrivalled disaster in both logistics and navigation. The party has not been heard from nor spotted in months, and the concern for their safety and survival is at a boiling point.
Day by day the wound continued to fester, and I could feel the side long glances and hear the murmurs of my peers as they considered and weighed the next actions dependant on the outcome of my wound. I prayed to not be left behind to die on this god forsaken mountain, though I’m sure that would be the recourse should my condition worsen to that point.
Eventually my worst fears were realized as they held me down after we stopped the unending march for the night and removed my leg with less than medical sanitary practices and a dull pocket knife.
I now sit along side a few other frozen corpses that were discharged from the original party and wait for my turn to become one with the ice, or I suppose to be a meal for the formidable beasts we were chasing, we will see who claims their prize quicker.
Hugs,
Big Jay
コメント