No one else

Two

Hunger is starting to gnaw at my stomach. There is little food in my pack, enough for perhaps two weeks, and I refuse to eat it before it becomes an absolute necessity. Finding more food is close to impossible in the foreseeable future, and I must ration the water I packed. There is no guarantee I will ever find drinkable water.

Sometimes, this all feels like a dream. It feels like my eyes are fighting to open, like my lungs are burning from holding my breath too long, like the ground is on the verge of caving beneath my feet and I might just wake up before I fall to my death.

But if the ground does open then I will die, because this is very real.

I look up at the sky. It is blue this morning, bright and devoid of clouds. The sun hits my shoulders angrily, and I notice for the first time that my shirt is torn and shredded. Like the gashes on my face, I cannot remember how the holes got there. I look down at myself for the first time in so long I can hardly recognize my body. There are cuts and bruises all over my legs, and dried blood stains my worn shoes. I look pitiful.

There isn't a single bird flying this morning. I doubt I will ever see a bird again. The thought makes me sad. I remember watching the birds fly over my garden with my sister when we were children. I was innocent back then, there was no tainted anger racing down my veins.

I wonder what she would think if she saw what I've become.

Perhaps it is merciful she died long ago, before my mind broke and my ambitions twisted. Before I became a perverse version of the person I used to be.

Twigs and dead leaves crunch beneath my crimson-tainted boots. It is unreal how silent everything is. There is no wind whistling through the trees, no sound of birds chirping or mountain goats bleating as I scale the side of the mountain. The silence is welcome, although it squeezes at my throat like an unrelenting rope. Mother Earth must be relieved. After all, it has never been quite so quiet before. And now, the only sounds to remain on this earth are the soft gurgles of a river, the wind whistling between leaves, waves crashing along the beach or against cliffs, rain hitting the ground with a soft thud.

And my steps.

My steps against the rough sands of the desert.
My steps against gravel and dirt.
My steps sinking in packed sand.
My steps sinking, sinking, sink until the end.

I never really liked my family.

My mother belittled and humiliated me, my father never acknowledged my presence, my older brother bullied me, my younger brother did not hide his resent for who I was and what I represented. Only my sister truly felt like family.

She was always by my side, supporting and encouraging me to follow my dreams. If only she'd known back then that my dreams would blacken and rot. Maybe the sky would not have cried the loss of its precious world.

My father is... My father was a terrible man.

He came from nothing, as did my mother. As did my entire family, for all we ever owned was taken away. A gift was sold, any money we earned was spent, and it was all used to finance my father's delusional dreams, all the things he wished to do and fought like a lion to obtain.

He died a weak man. I can still picture his trembling hands, the way his voice shook as he spoke to me at the very end. Tears were dripping down his wrinkled and aged face, and I want to sneer in disgust at the simple memory.

How dare he try to stop me from achieving the only thing I had ever dreamt of pursuing? How dare he when he ignored me for most of my life?

How dare my mother put up with such a feeble, cowardly man as her companion?

My mother was a cruel creature. Not once in my life did she speak to me in a way that was soft and not resentful, like my very presence was a nuisance for her. As a child, it hurt me. When I grew older, I learned to ignore her, take her snarky remarks as compliments rather than insults. In some ways, my mother forged me. Those insults she used to throw at my face every chance she got carved themselves into my bones. They are inked into my being and made me what I am.

I smile.

This is your fault, mother, I think. Or maybe I say it out loud.

I hope she heard me.

Clouds heavy with the promise of rain have gathered, blocking out the burning rays of the sun. My legs ache as I scale up the side of the mountain, but I refuse to stop, ignoring the pain and the exhaustion weighing me down. I have to push forward.

The soft gurgle of a stream catches my attention, and I leave the rough path I was following, diving through the trees to follow the delicate sound.

What I find when I reach the clearing is a sight to behold; the ground is scorched, the air heavy with the acrid scent of smoke, and burnt carcasses litter the ground. Ashes slip beneath my feet, and when I turn the trees are gone, replaced by a mass of burnt bushes and blackened stumps. I blink slowly.

The gurgle sounds louder suddenly, and I turn back, watching a light stream trail along the waste. The water should glisten under the thin rays of sun that filter through the dark clouds. It doesn't. Instead of transparent and crystal-clear, the water is black. Debris floats in its midst, carried off to the end of the line, where it will amass and create a block, something that will stop the water from flowing away.

My legs carry me to the edge of the stream, and I crouch there, watching with fascination how the ashes swirl with the current and create drawings that I could only wish to reproduce with my hands. The ground beneath my feet is soaked and unstable, but I pay it no attention, lost in the movements of the water and the things that float in it, branches and leaves and dead fish.

An urge passes over me, a thought that flitters across my mind and convinces me before I truly realize what it is. I don't resist.

The water is cold.

It tugs at my clothes, plays with my hair, fills my boots and my ears and my mouth as I laugh into it, delighted by the feel of the debris hitting my thighs, my back, my face. I open my eyes and am exhilarated to find nothing but blackness in front of me, my dreams embodied.

My lungs burn as my back hits the bottom of the river, and I laugh through the pain, not really sure I ever want to get back to the surface. The current is not strong enough to move me, the river only barely deep enough to fit my body. Still, I let myself be carried as my lungs cry and scream at me, begging for air. I let them beg.

Somewhere in a corner of my mind, I know I won't let myself die. I have not appreciated my blank world enough, there is still so much more to see, the consequences of my actions awaiting me so close and so far from here. I cannot let them down by disappearing now.

My face breaks the surface of the water and I cough, throwing up blackness into the blackness and breathing raggedly, a smile tilting my lips.

I let my gaze drift around the burnt trees and ground, stare at the carcasses. It feels like they are staring back at me with lifeless eyes.

My clothes and pack drip black water all over the ground as I step out of the stream, drops sliding from my hair and into my eyes.

You're welcome, I tell the carcasses, and dive back through the trees.