Nothing feels real anymore. I wish I had the moon to talk to. It’s not here yet. Instead it is endless sameness. Trees, fallen leaves, hills, and rocks. The sun is nowhere. Just flat clouds overhead. At least it’s warmer than it was. A southern fall can be cold or hot or anywhere in between, and today is definitely on the warm side. I should be thankful for the temperature change, but I’m not. I’m not anything.
I wish I had my fight. Everything is easier with fight. I want it to come back, try to cajole it. But my fight has nothing to say. Instead, something else replies.
Maybe you were meant to die here.
No, don’t say that. I’m going to live.
Maybe not. Maybe you’re going to die.
No. I’m going to the road and then people will find me and I’ll be okay.
Maybe no one is looking for you.
They are looking for me. My family loves me. My friends love me.
That’s the nice thing to think, isn’t it?
No more. I’m done talking to you, whatever you are. I wish the moon were here, to comfort me. But he isn’t. There’s nothing here for me. There’s nothing to distract me, and I need to fill my head with something. The terrain means nothing to me. I don’t feel anything right now. It’s like I don’t have a body. I barely have eyes. There is nothing for it but to trudge along, trudge along, until I run into the road.
I need something. Something concrete. After so many days of this I feel lost. How many days have I already survived? I don’t know.
I reach back for the beginning, but it’s like trying to catch smoke. The beginning isn’t there for me. This isn’t good. This is something I should know. After fumbling around for a while, I find it. The back of the truck. The shavings and manure and blindness.
Once I touch it, everything gets worse. It’s too painful. I’ve opened a horrible door, and now I can’t close it. Recalling the truck makes me recall the cabin, which makes me recall the gunshot, which makes me recall driving through the mountains, and then something else happened.
Blankness.
This is the perfect time to shut the door, but it’s so strange that I can’t remember what happened next. The door stays open. Tentatively I peer through it.
Then I see a house, a log cabin sort of house.
Lockeys.
No, that’s not right. Not Lockeys. Something like that.
Logans.
That’s right, the Logans. There’s some satisfaction that comes with naming them. The satisfaction gives me the boost I need to shut the door on memories. Nothing good comes of memory. Better to think of the road.
Where is the road? Why isn’t it here yet?
The featureless sky casts no shadow, but it must be getting late. I’ve been walking a long time. The road should be here by now.
It’s almost dark. I’m lost. I have no idea where the road is. The worst thing, the scariest thing, is that I’m not scared. That’s not good. On a deep, primal level I know it’s not good. I should be scared. Scared of dying of exposure, scared of Wolfman coming to and hunting me down, scared of my injuries going septic.
That thought makes me pause. I take a Tylenol.
Once the Tylenol is back in my pocket, I look up, ready to resume my walk. But I’m no longer sure of which way I’m going. Everything looks the same. Thing is, if you’re lost, does it even matter which way you were going?
See? You were meant to die out here.
I sit down. It feels like there’s a bowling ball in my stomach. It’s grief and I’m grieving for me. I can’t think about my family or friends or God, but I do think about the fact that I can’t think about them. They’re right outside my line of thought, and it’s a line I can’t cross. There is only the tiniest thread, a spider’s bit of silk, that is keeping me from death. Remembering my life before Wolfman, before the forest, threatens to snap that line in two.
Need to get up. Need to keep moving.
But I’m still sitting. Every thought is too painful to touch, so I don’t touch anything. I just sit. It’s not peace, but it’s not pain, either. It’s the only thing I can manage. Perhaps this is me taking a break, and in a little bit some strength will come back to me.
It’s getting darker. Colder.
Deep, deep, deep down, a low, urgent voice tells me this isn’t okay. This is going very badly. This can’t continue.
But I don’t get up.
Instead, I close my eyes and live in darkness. For how long, I don’t know. Time doesn’t exist for me like it once did.