Wasteland

A little ghost story I suppose?

Winds chiseled against a frozen cheek. Hearts dead cold from the frost. Time stopped in the path of near impossible success. One forbidden prisoner had escaped to the land covered in ice; only bodies lay across the snow. Buried in ice and the occasional build up forming a hill of bodies. Attempting to conquer the wasteland was almost certain suicide. Death was inevitable for most. 
Still, he tried, with only a compass and prison uniform. Every odd was against him. We walked, never ran. He didn't stop. Never touched a body. He headed south-west. In his mind he knew he would make it. He would make it. He would.

But, he didn't. After three days he collapsed into the snow and crawled for another day until his hands and feet where frozen solid. He pushed himself until some of his fingers broke off. He had no idea about his feet. Still, he laid in the snow and told himself if he slept he would wake up and try again. He closed his eyes. 

He never re-opened them.

His spirit fled his body. Unable to retrieve the compass from his body, the spirit wanders the wasteland. He searches for his escape, and waits for his nightmare to be over and to wake up and make it out alive. He waits in vein. Not knowing of his death. Not knowing why he is still asleep. Not knowing why his beloved God aloud him to be falsely imprisoned.

Some days, he returns to his body and without and education, believes he would have decade if he were dead. Even in death, he looks for his escape.