Time passes without certainty. A house, you've built; a spear, you've forged; a bed, you've gathered; but a calendar you did not write. You come to love the heat, burrowing under pelts when the night's icy fingers prod at you. You have not seen the void in weeks or perhaps even months. Still, you climb the broken slope of the mountain to offer it gratitude. The swelling in your hand improves but never heals. Every time a scab plugs the festering boil, it ruptures open again. It's as if something wishes to not be sealed away.
The abandoned village at the boatyard remains foreboding. You care not for the decrepit place, and it send shivers over your hardened flesh to wonder where it came from.
Despite only unthinking chitinous things nourishing you at your arrival, now wildlife roam the island. Pigs, bison, and cervids sacrifice themselves to your spear and you ensure that nothing goes to waste. Their pelts cover your hut—your skin. Their horns form your tools and sustain your efforts while their flesh sustains you. You are grateful.
In the mornings you pace the shores. The sands slip between your toes and you enjoy it; you've come to enjoy visceral sensations. The waves crash like the beats of the world's heart and you curl into the womb of this nurturing land.
You cannot remember your last trying time as your kettle never empties, and your fire never dies. This is your world, given to you—meant for you. Freedom from pain and tribulation stretches into days or weeks of comfort. You question those weary mornings and frigid nights on the mainland. Why did you waste decades away there? Why did it take you so long to find this true joy? There are endless questions to ask this place, and none you will bother to for you have no need for answers. But there is one certainty: you shall never lose what this island has bestowed upon you.
YOU ARE READING
The Second Stage
HorrorA world unseen dies over and over. It shrieks at a pitch that you cannot hear. It rots with a stench that you will never quite know. It isn't a place meant for you and I, it is merely a bank for the dead and dying; a vault of visceral agony. I...
