The Hunt

Chapter 31: Naya

I can barely keep my head up, I'm so weak. The hunger has made me unable to even stand.
Sitting against the hard bark of the tree, I look at my knife. I tried to get the blood off of it, but it's crusty and won't come off. It's like a reminder of all the people I've killed in my short life. I can't say I regret it, because I probably still wouldn't be alive if I hadn't. But I also can't say it hasn't changed me.

I look at the blade and wonder if it is sharp enough to kill me quickly. Probably not. It depends where I cut myself.

But then I think of all the pitiful things I have seen people do in these woods, like suicide. No, I am not one of them. I'm going to let the elements, natural minions of the dark forest, engulf my body however slow and painful it might be.

Suddenly, damp leaves rustle nearby.

I lift my knife, feeling a last surge of energy as instinctive survival kicks in, and look around desperately.

There's another rustle, and I crawl backwards into the shadow of the tree even further, my eyes darting back and forth, looking for the exile that's near.

Something scurries out from under a bush.

I relax a little, seeing it's a mouse, and begin to calm back down.

My stomach growls, and I glance back at the rodent. Maybe I could kill it. I've tried hunting once before, but I've never been quick enough to catch something.

Looking at that mouse, I know I should at least try.

So I crouch down and stealthily move forward. I'm very good at being silent, but I'm not sure I'll be able to slip my knife out in time.

I wait for a while, watching the small creature breath and twitch.

I thrust my knife out as quick as when I'm killing an exile, and it hits the scrambling leg of the mouse.

I jump forward and strike again, and it hits the mouse in the back. It's squealing now, and I stab it one more time with my knife to make sure it's dead.

I pick up the bloody mess in my hands, a triumphant feeling welling up inside of me.

I pull the skin off in areas where my knife already opened it up, and try to pick out parts that look edible. The flesh is gooey and smeared in blood, and weird tiny organs are coming out all over my hands.

After a minute or two, my hunger is too strong, and I just throw whatever isn't too caked in blood into my mouth.

The next thing I know, I'm heaving up everything I just swallowed, plus the small morsels of food I had a matter of days ago, like cruMBT and leaves.
When I'm just dry heaving, because there's nothing left inside of me, I feel even weaker than before.

I curl up on the cold, damp ground, shivering and staring at the bloody gross mess of the mouse and my gut-covered knife.

I feel like crying, but since I haven't cried in years and years, nothing comes out. I just sit and wonder for the hundredth time if I would even have the strength anymore to be able to kill myself. However, just like all the other terrible realities of my life, I know it won't happen. I've thought this same thing on many occasions, but it never ceases to present itself.

This is how I'm going to die.

My vision is blurred and there are black dots in the corners of my eyes. The cold is numbing. I can barely hear anything over the throbbing of blood in my ears.

Then, some blurred figures walk around me, and I want to run, or swing my knife, or do something at least, but I can't move. I don't have the energy.

And then, there's muffled talking, and arguing between people.

Next thing I know, rough hands pick up my weak body, and start to carry me somewhere.

I pass out again.

I'd like to think death has taken me, or maybe even angels. I heard about angels once, probably before banishment. Maybe they're taking me away from the forest.

But angels wouldn't be able to reach a place like this. Not this forest, not here. This is hell.

Besides, angels would not take me. They only take good people away, they only carry city folk to a happy place. Exiles are criminals. We do not go to a better place. We committed crimes, did terrible things. We don't deserve to be taken by winged people.

I am a criminal for some reason, even though I don't know what I did. I wish someone would just tell me what I did to deserve this. I wish I could explain to the angels that I don't know what I did, so they can take me.

But I am still out here, and there is no one to answer me. So wherever I go after death, it will not be a place with angels. No, it will probably be a place as dark as this forest.

And the forest is for exiles. Criminals like me. Bad people like me. And I will only ever live in the shadows.