Our world was a world of white, the blizzard never ceasing as cold continued to seep into our veins. The pilot had literally cracked his skull open, and the front of the plane was shattered, the nose buried beneath the snow. The shelter of the plane, the few surviving rations we had and the snow was enough for the first few days. Then the rations ran out, and we were left with an empty, gnawing hunger.

There were two main causes of death during that one grueling month in the mountains. One was hypothermia. The other was cannibalism.

Forced to survive on human flesh, we killed so we could survive. I lost count of how many I killed to sustain my hunger. It began with 23 of us, and it ended with nine of us. Finally, the blizzard stopped, and I was the only one strong enough to look for help.

Hours had passed before I finally found an inhabited cabin. I phoned the police and the eight survivors at the crash site were rescued. I was able to keep in contact with only some of them - three, to be precise. The other five were either too traumatized or I could never reach them.

That isn't to say we weren't traumatized. We all were. But it effected us to different degrees.

It was about a month after my ordeal that I began to crave, once again, the taste of human flesh. There was no denying that when I first became a cannibal, the taste of human flesh was by far the worst thing I'd ever tasted. I mean, why wouldn't it be? In my situation, or in any situation at all, it would be hard not to resent the taste of human flesh. But if I continued focusing on the negative side, I would never survive. So instead, I made a meal out of it. I changed my state of mind. I forced myself to believe that human flesh was as good as any food. How else was I meant to eat and, as a result, survive?

This state of mind apparently took its toll on me. I eventually became so scared I confessed my cravings to one of the survivors. We had been close during the ordeal, and we openly shared our experiences. I was half-shocked and half-relieved when he said he felt exactly the same way as I did.

Eventually, it was established that all of us, save the ones too traumatized to talk, felt the same way as I did. We all craved human flesh, but we all feared this craving.

It was on one particular night during one of our meetings that we drank a little too much vodka and the craving for flesh really hit us. Unable to protest because of all that booze working its way through our system, we spiraled out of control. I'd like to lie and say nothing happened, but there's no use denying it. It was on that night that we killed a human innocent and ate him, literally picking the bones clean.

Fearing for our safety, we hid the skeletal remains. The person was reported missing and nothing ever came of the case.

I never drank alcohol again.

I've come to realize that there are certain triggers for strong cravings of human flesh, similar to the way that the drink made us literally eat that person down to the bones. I'm always on the lookout for these triggers, always fearing that the craving will become so strong I won't be able to control it. I've considered suicide, even came close to doing it several times, but just haven't been able to bring myself to take my own life.

There's a lot more to this story, a lot more that goes on inside my own head. It's too much to process, even for me. There are still days that I come close to taking the lives of others and eating their flesh right down to the bone.

Am I a reluctant killer? I guess you could say that.