The end is coming. You've realized the end was coming for many days now — your end.
The barrack is only a flimsy facade of protection from the Northern Siberian Arctic onslaught of winter. It is your refuge of four thin walls: a roof, a door and window frames of timber felled by prisoners on last legs with axes and planes, axe blades you want to use slit your wrists. If only… if only the axe could cut deep enough to allow you to slowly bleed blood-red into the white snow, under your ever-green of trees, while watching a last gray-blue moon fade into the clouds along with your life. If only. You pray for an ending, pray for escape — but answered prayers only reach the dead here. You pray anyway.