The Shadows Within Us | Grethan

1

ethan's point of view

I sat on the brick steps of my front porch, sucking on the filter end of my hand rolled cigarette. I had pre-rolled a dozen or so a few hours ago, bored out of my mind. I had gone into town early this afternoon, which was a two hour drive, to get a few bags of paper and tobacco. I had learned from my father, watching him roll, as a child. It took time, and every lick to the tip of your finger meant something- an increase to your death date. But it eased the pain and put a damper on my sad, lonely life. Some would say I was a hermit, the people in town certainly had no problem calling me that, but me living alone, with no one a few hundred miles from me, had nothing to do with me being a hermit.

The dictionary definition of a hermit is: a person living in solitude as a religious discipline, and truly, I wasn't doing this because I was a Jew and everyone around me was a Christian. Fuck no. I just wanted- no needed an escape from town life, town thoughts, and just everything regarding the town. I had moved away once I turned 18, legally allowed to do what I wanted, and I took the money I earned from working at a garage fixing cars and drove an old red Volkswagen bus around the state until I found a place to settle down. Then it only took me a little less than two years to build myself a place to live.

The cabin I had constructed was one of my biggest achievements. There was a well out in the back that was there when I came across the land, I had been hiking through the woods one day. It was one of the reasons why I picked this specific piece of land. The second? Fertile soil that helped when I wanted to grow my own fresh vegetables. If anything, I felt like a newly settled Pilgrim. I had just gotten off the Mayflower and was like "Hey. This looks like a good place to settle" and here I was 4 years later. Happy-ish, content, and living to the fullest.

Trips to the town weren't very often. I made it like that. I had no reason to go into town until I was in dire need of something. This time, it was for papers and tobacco for my cigarettes. I wouldn't be going back until a month or so. I didn't need to. I had enough food to last me until Winter and it was now the middle of the Summer. Water was right in my backyard. But, the more I thought about my plans, I might have to go to town sooner than later, or hunt more often. I had found someone, a boy, in the middle of the woods.

I had found the boy as I went out to check the traps. I hadn't caught anything so far, and I had to check one more trap, just in case. I wasn't hunting for anything in particular, but I knew it was Coyote season in the hunting world. I had caught a few before, but I didn't like the taste of the meat. After figuring that out, I mostly kept the hide and used the meat as bait to catch larger animals. I was standing right next to the last trap, a squirrel there. It's leg was in the teeth of the trap and the bone was dismantled and mangled. I was focused on the squirrel until I heard a snap of branches.

I had looked up, down, left, and when my head turned right, there he was, on the forest floor. He looked dead when I first approached him. His face was covered in bites from the sharp teeth of the thorns that flourished in this area. His face looked much better than the rest of him, but not much. He looked terrible. It seemed that he had been attacked- mauled, by a bear possibly. But as I looked over the injuries he sported, I could tell he was dragged. After living in the woods for as long as I have, I knew that some killers took their victims out here to murder them. Whatever attacked this poor boy was something I had never seen before.

I left the squirrel in the trap, figuring some animal would get it by sunrise, as the boy that was unconscious and bleeding from everywhere I looked, was more important. He was light and carrying him to the cabin didn't take much effort or stress on my body. I had lugged 300 pound bucks from a mile away from the cabin to the cabin; I was pretty damn fit because of it. So a boy, who looked under 200 pounds, was easy for me. I was very careful picking him up, afraid I'd do more damage to him. But after taking 5 minutes to get him into my arms, I was walking back. He seemed to come to on the way back, but I couldn't understand him much. His words were mushed together and his jaw was probably not in the best shape.

When I got back to the cabin, I laid him onto the couch. I took one of the pillows from my bedroom and tucked it under his head, but the white pillow case turned red within a few minutes and instead of getting him comfortable first like I had planned, I had to tend to his wounds, or at least stop the bleeding and set back dislocated and broken bones. The boy was in a deep enough sleep that setting his left ankle back into it's socket was easy enough. Snapping his femur back into place took a little more time and some of the bone was shattered. I took two of my belts to wrap around his leg to keep the bone in place. A splint made from belts- crafty.

I had to use fishing line and a sewing needle to stitch the giant gash on the back of his head. I even had to use a straw to re-inflate his lung. Oh I must've forgotten, my mother is a doctor and I had read her medical books so many times, I could've went into the medical field, and but here I was, in a cabin in the middle of the woods stitching a kids head with fishing line. I had stitched in the straw and moved onto other areas that needed my attention. He had snapped his clavicle in half, it seemed like from the odd way his right arm was bent. I had to use another one of my belts and old t-shirts to make a sling.

But the injury I was afraid of most; his sprained neck. Black, yellow, green, and purple bruises were already taking over the area and I had taken more belts- why the fuck did I have so many belts?- and pillows from my bedroom to make a contraption to keep his neck stable while he slept. After an hour or two of stitching, taking a million belts and pillows from the closet and bedroom, and setting back broken and dislocated bones, I was on my porch smoking a cigarette. In one hand, a cigarette, half smoked, and in the other, a glass of whisky. If I got any traits from my father, it would be his love for tobacco and alcohol. Dying young from alcohol poisoning, my father had taught me many "life lessons" and one I will always remember is to "Take shit from no one and when you do, have a glass of whisky."

Although I hadn't taken shit from anyone, I was definitely having a glass of whisky while a boy I had never seen in my life, was sleeping on my couch. As I thought about it like that, I started to laugh, belting out in laughter actually. I had moved myself from the dry night to the inside of my cabin, and sat in one of the wooden Adirondack chairs I crafted a summer or two ago. The cigarette was put out in the ash tray on my side table, but the glass of whisky was calling my name. I took sip as my eyes looked over the almost lifeless boy, if he woke up- survived even- it would be a miracle. And now, it was a waiting game.