𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐃

𝐓𝐄́𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐀

𝐍𝐎𝐄𝐌𝐈

My decision to drink the night before has slowly become more torturous as I type my article out. It's getting to a point where I feel like I'm seeing things, and I don't hallucinate— ever. The water I've ingested hasn't done much to clear my head, and the small kiwi I cut for myself mid-session only gave me a quarter of brain power.

To sum it up, I've written nothing but a bunch of lousy sentences that I'm considering a hook, which shouldn't even be considered a hook because of how dysfunctional it is. I rub my temples and eventually shut my laptop, giving up on the whole article. I stretch my sore limbs and freshen up with whatever energy I have. I splash my face with some water and stare at my bare face.

Two thoughts fill my head:

1. Continue trying to write incoherent sentences until my brain convinces me it makes sense

Or

2. Find my calling.

And I know exactly where to find it.

The rational side of my brain is trying to find every reason not to go back into those woods, but I can't seem to form a good enough reason not to. I know the dangers of returning to that forest, but I'm an author, goddamnit. I need to find something, anything, that'll help me better understand what these Salems are and what they can do. It's my only hope at this point.

♡

I grip the straps of my backpack as I stand in front of the forest lining. The wind blows through the summer leaves, and the ground crinkles with life. It sounds peaceful, the complete opposite of the sight I saw last night. I take a deep breath, taking in the fresh air before diving into the mysteries I have yet to discover and begin walking.

In the daytime, the sun perches perfectly over the trees, providing small spots of heat, while others bring shade and coolness. I would make this a new writing spot if I weren't so wary of what could approach me in these woods. I'd put out a comfy blanket with some pillows and snacks and—

What the fuck.

I stop dead in my tracks, shack-looking homes coming into view. They look like they're built from wood and covered in blankets, sheets, and animal fur. I step back, and more come into view from a different angle. They all look relatively the same size except for the one perched in the middle, staggering in height and build.

How long have I been walking?

My breath hitches as a figure emerges from the center building. I shelter myself behind the closest tree and steady my breath, seeing as this figure is relatively bulky and tall. An untamed beard covers the lower half of his face, and his eyebrows are slim but bushy. A scar runs down from his temple, through his eyebrow and eye, and stops at his bottom eyelid. It's not red, so it's an old scar, but it holds its thickness.