I remember the ripping sensation. The fabric tearing beneath my hands as I clawed at mother’s skirt.
Her screams at me, how she pushed me away. She saved me from the evil burn of humanity. I rolled into the bushes on the south side of our house, lay there, panting and recovering from shock. How tears streamed thick down my face and how I pressed my nose into the Earth, choking on the dry dust. The fire licked nearer.
They found me in the morning. Post-searchers. They searched burned houses for the dead—and the survivors. These tried to coax me out of my little safe haven, pry me away from the sheltering bushes. I would not budge. Never, I thought to myself, will you get your filthy, murderous little hands on me.
Then the memory shifts into a long, piercing wail.
My own, I believe.
With a slightly struggling breath, I force myself to consciousness. However awake I may seem, the nightmare lingers—my mind screams, ‘Move! Move! Move!’ I need to escape from—
Then I realize. I am home.
I drag myself up to seated position and listen to the birds awhile. Tweet! Tweet! Chirpity-chirpity-chirp! Tweet! Tweet!
Slowly my heart stops pounding. Birds. I’m in my cavern, listening to the innocent chatter of insects and birds. Everything is natural. Normal. No one will ever discover me here. I am hidden. Safe. Alone. Alone? No, don’t think that. Otherwise I’ll be drawn back screaming into the memories. Half dreaming, half awake.
Terrible pain. The pain of losing every—. Don’t. Just don’t. I tell myself this over and over again until I forget what I’m not supposed to be doing.
My stomach growls. Hunger. The perfect distraction from my nightmare-ish memories. What should I eat today? I could go forage for plant life, but I don’t always find enough and it’s not very filling. I could go fishing. That way I am almost guaranteed to catch something.
I wearily rock backwards on my heels and then forward again, gaining enough momentum to stand up without noise. You see, I can never be quite careful enough. It’s still easy for them— the post searchers, that is— to find me. And I definitely don’t want to be found.
I don’t like most sounds. Even the soft crunching of gravel is bothersome to my ears. Yet another reason why I could never go back to the civil world. The cities— filled with smog and larger than they need to be— loud and pounding, smashing noise into my head. Machine-like people as they buzz in droves to work and then back again. The constant barrage of sound that humans have come to love— talk, engines, slams, music. Horrible music. Crashing and pained, with angry words. Some music is beautiful, though. The deep chanting of an orchestra. Thrums of voice, here and there, melting in with instruments to create a wonderful world of sound and color. Deep, rich hues.
But my favorite background noises are the sounds of nature. The melody of rushing water skimming over stones. The whistle of the leaves, creaking of the frogs. Swishing grass. The occasional screech of a surprised beast.
I love the texture of the real world, too. None of that slick tile and striped pavement of cities for me, thanks.
I love the rugged mountains and valleys in bark, ridges of sand. The way wet dirt squishes between my toes and pebbles press up against my heels. How I run my palms over the ground, pluck thorns from my body. How the jabbing sticker burrs stretch my skin as I yank them out. Pasty clouds as they break apart. There’s another thing I love—the endless sky.
