Interface

Mila

I burrow deeper into the makeshift cover of leaves that I have surrounded myself with.
Three massive, smooth boulders shield me from the bitter wind's worst attempts to freeze me, but they won't last long, and then I will be blown away like a dry leaf into the thorn bushes that surround the clearing like ancient walls of a city.
The odd thing is that I don't recall the bushes being in place when I first arrived in the valley, but I must be so delirious with grief and pain that I either didn't notice them, or I'm seeing things.
For the sake of my mental well-being, I hope the case is that I didn't notice them, otherwise I might be in trouble.
My next observation is that- as the thorn bushes push forth- the wind picks up, as if it is in a deadly race with the briers as to who can be more responsible for my demise.
I press further into the smooth rocks as the thistles crawl closer across the sandy soil, but they refrain from actually touching said soil, and this gives me an idea.
I reach out and grab a handful of leaves, ignoring the pain of inch-long spines shredding their way through my skin and into the soft tissue below.
After I get over the initial pain I press the leaves into the soil, and they recoil as if they've been burned, but I don't relinquish my grip on them, and I continue to hold the leaves into the sandy soil.
It feels nice against my hands, but the thorns are slowly withering away to sulk at the edges of the clearing.
The wind redoubles its efforts, and I have to cling to a crevice in one of the rocks in order to maintain my current position.
The soil is disturbed from having the leaves forced against the surface, and the dead leaves that were abandoned by the main bush are slowly being pulled under the surface by an unseen force.
I start to wonder what exactly has taken place within this forest.
Before my very eyes, twisting branches are spreading through the sky- like the dead leaves have fueled their growth to obscene speeds for a plant.
The wind transfers its efforts to the branches above, trying to twist them back towards the source of their growth, but the branches merely wind into the wind instead of away.
These trees- this forest in general- resists every law of nature, and it confuses me to no end when I try to figure out how this could possibly come to be.
Whatever forces are pulling the strings behind the scenes of this grotesque play must be commanding if they can force a tree to grow towards the source of force instead of against it- as many plants- and trees in general, naturally grow.
I cower further into the shelter of the stones, taking no small amount of comfort in the fact that they will defend me from the wind.
At least I hope they will.
In my experience so far, rocks do not move unless pushed, but this forest might change this rule as well.
Perhaps these stones will turn out to be enormous eggs, with hungry hatchlings of some new creature stirring within them; already ravenous about their first meal.
Another possibility is that these rocks will fall under the constant, unyielding pressure of the wind, and fall upon me, squishing me flat in the process.
I try to clear my head of such gruesome thoughts, but the damage has been done and now I can't stop imagining myself as a set of crushed remains under a fallen rock.
If I leave this makeshift shelter, I will be blown into the thorns by the wind.
If I stay where I am, the rock may crush me to a crimson pulp, interspersed by small chunks of bone and the pulp of my internal organs.
Overall, the mental image is gruesome, not to mention nauseating, and I nearly vomit at the sobering realization that- all too easily, I could die in a countless number of ways each one more grisly than the last.
Finally, the wind subsides, and I peek out to look at my surroundings.
The thorn bushes seem to recede to within the earth, but the branches overhead continue to grow outwards.
Perhaps they are fueled by the thorn-filled soil far below them, but this seems doubtful at best.
My thought turns to the man Mara killed. The one with the overly large nose and the big forehead.
I wonder if he had any family, any small children who would hang onto his arms and squeal in unmatchable delight.
Maybe he had a wife, a stout woman with a stern expression but a kind heart for her babes.
I can't imagine that he has been alone for his own life, with no companions to share memories with.
Such an ordeal would drive any human being with a modicum of common sense into irreparable madness, and they would most likely stagger along the earth in a desperate attempt to fill their empty heart.
But if he had family, then I can only imagine the toll that the man's death will take on his family.
I can almost hear their grief stricken wails rising from the underbrush... or is the sound real?
This forest is distorting my senses, making me vulnerable to whatever creatures roam the woods.
I need to keep moving, perhaps find water that hasn't been contaminated by the forest's evil miasma.
My legs feel heavy, and I want to lay down and sleep, but I know that if I lay down in this forest, there is a good chance that I won't wake up again.