Villain in the Canvas

Chapter 1

The hardest part of playing dead is fighting the urge to move. Not a breath, shake, nor shiver, even in these frozen woods.

My lungs are fighting to fulfill their purpose, to gasp for breath and relieve this feeling of suffocation, but the gamble is too risky. Only short controlled breaths to hide any visible signs of life. Knowing he is out there watching is what keeps me committed to this relentless task.

A real-life mannequin challenge is hard enough without having to ignore a frozen forest floor and the first signs of hemorrhagic shock. My chest is pounding and breathing already minimal to prevent even a wisp of steam from emitting into the frosty air. I am curled on my side, eyes shut and back turned to the sound of crunching leaves strolling towards me.

Not having to fake the glassy look of a dead stare was a blessing. I mean, once you commit to staring off into oblivion, you can't just start blinking and continue to pull off the corpse act.

On the flip side, this veil of darkness left too much to the imagination. I would prefer to see who it was that decided to embed a knife sharply into my side.

How close was he, she, or it and did they track me knowing I would pass by here? Was he armed with anything else? Where the hell am I, and why is this fucker doing this to me in the first place?

I am left with mapping my surroundings from sound alone. In the distance, a slight roar of water, a river downhill possibly? A slight rustling moved the branches of hibernating giants surrounding me but it's the descending heaviness of boots that still demanded my utmost attention.

The movement was gradual yet deliberate heading directly towards me, diminishing any hope of this being the sound of salvation. If a good samaritan had been moving up to check on me the sound would have been more hurried and frantic after noticing a lifeless man sprawled out. No, here there was no urgency, not even the slightest hint of curiosity in those methodical steps that landed with menace.

The metal in my left side produced streaks of pain up my back, my only comfort the warmth of spilled blood flowing past the numb belly and wooden legs sprawled underneath me.

I am dying, there was no mistaking it, the feeling of fading away, of dissolving into nothing. Unfortunately, this was the only thing I know, not how I came to be hunted in the middle of nowhere, a waking nightmare. There was nothing leading up to now, no start to the day or end to yesterday, just paralyzing cold and pain. My mind is an empty canvas before the painter applies the first strokes of their favorite hue.

Was the blood loss impairing my memory? I could barely move, let alone think clearly. My skin is a whoopie cushion for pins and needles, the warm blood bathing me the only sense of relief. If I can barely feel then the notion of getting up to catch him off guard was a pipe dream, ludicrous at best. I would lose consciousness before delivering a half-assed swing.

Whoever had embedded the blade had waited, watched, then cut me down with nominal effort. A deliberate attack like this takes patience and preparation. The idea of me somehow gaining the upper hand with these stiff limbs was a cruel joke at best.

All I can do is lie here in hopes that the breaker of leaves will get bored and move along if assured that I am dead. What fun is it to further mutilate me as I lie motionless?  Isn't there some other poor shmuck just asking to be chased through the woods by a chainsaw-wielding, human skin wearing cannibal? It is cold outside after all, why not leave and be on your way, don't you have other hobbies outside of murder?

It is then that a scary feeling sheers me, what if killing me was not the goal? Perhaps he recognizes I am faking it and has more elaborate schemes that will make me miss this current state of paralysis. Why else have all this pretense and deliberation than to be the start of his prized torture session marathon?