Being alone does something to you.

  It makes you bitterly mistrusting and I'm nothing if not that. I've fought myself every step of my life even now I'm talking to myself, fighting myself.

  What kind of animal would do that?

  I can't do this,

  I can't survive this,

  I can't survive myself.

  There's nothing, I don't think I’ve ever been this alone,

  no people, no animals,

  no fish, no bugs,

  nobody just this hell of a thicket.

  It's quiet.

  I hate it when it's quiet.

  my hands shook the adrenaline pulling at my gums and nails leading me like a dog on a leash.

  I started scanning the edge of the woods.

  food,

  knotweed,

  perfect.

  I need more food.

  I need to do something,

  I need to do anything,

  the urge to run, fight.

  It is pounding in my skull, as I'm not so slowly losing control of my muscles and my mind.

  As I started pulling at the roots. The grass, the soil deeper,

  and deeper

  and deeper,

  and deeper.

  Even with my pain muted, my hands bleed, my nails chipped, but I don't feel life in my blood.

  I feel the ache still, but not the pain.

  The cold started to creep in again. I couldn't feel it. I didn't care enough to.

  Shocks of pain began to reach my knuckles, my wrists,

  my elbows,

  over the hours even the stones began to dig into my knees. Slowly my shoulders began to drag down. I couldn't see anymore but I didn't need to. I could feel it.

  I couldn't hold my tears anymore.

  I'm tired, I don't know what I was trying to do but I thought I had to do something as long as I was moving it would be alright.

  There were a lot of things going through my head,

  there were a lot of things I should have done, there were a lot of things I should have said now there's no one.

  Crowded ideas,

  crowded thoughts.

  I don't know what they're saying.

  I've been alone too long. Maybe it's being out here. Everything feels empty. The faster my thoughts spun, the faster my hands hit the soil.

  The once pings of pain. Turned to the earthquaking sounds of a gong.

  I fell forward and slumped over my day's work. Still sobbing. I stopped and waited desperately trying to get a hold of myself.

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  Someone said something once. Sorrow is the one thing no one can survive with or without. It's the emotion that drowns people and god does it hurt more than anything else it's pain, true pain, unbridled pain, and god was I in pain.

  I started pulling myself out of the pit. Over to the pile of ash from the day before.

  I lied there for a minute on my stomach trying to decide how much effort I wanted to put into my survival.

  Before reaching into the pocket of my old jeans to get the lighter.

  I just drug my whole arm to the middle where I left some kind of kindling and

  click, click— click.

  No spark?

  My thumb rested on the top of the lighter getting ready to try the damn thing again.

  When I noticed something hot, dripping down my hand, spreading the feeling of warmth along my knuckles, and down to my pointer before falling off my ring finger. I pushed the lighter into the crease of my middle finger before pulling back to spark it again.

  A bit more desperate this time.

  Click, click, click,

  A spark finally.

  My eyes began adjusting to the light of the fire. I finally got to see what the problem was, and I could have sworn the lighter I had was white.

  From my stomach I tried my best to move to my side, getting a look at myself a bit better.

  It wasn't a pretty sight; the bone was still covered not by skin,

  Not by flesh, or nail.

  But feathers, dancing, damp, yet smoother, softer, and more delicate sure, adjusting to finally living without constraints.

  But it doesn't hurt, not at all.

  The fire crackled beside me now, begging to come to life.

  I looked between the two.

  My hands,

  And the black crackling coals.

  My fingers,

  And the ash underneath, clean, quiet, resting.

  My blood,

  And the hot embers whispering, their faces obscured within the wood, as their souls leaked out the top of the thing, laughing.

  I started coming back a little. I realized how crazy I was being, how irrational I pulled my hands to my chest.

  Getting a closer look this time. It could have been worse. It was only my palms that had scratches and my nails were still clean and well just… shorter, I grabbed the water from my bag and placed it in the fire to boil.

  Before closing my eyes for a moment.

  Just a moment.

  I sat up,

  The fires gone out and the mornings cold, windy.

  I looked down at my skinned hands and remembered where we left off last night.

  The wounds are beginning to clot and scab over, the old things look congealed. I guess that's why we call them clots.

  I pick up the water and look towards my hands, intending to clean them. But I don't want to disturb the wounds again. I take a long swig before looking over them again.

  There's a large straight cut across my right palm that I'm fairly sure I didn't get while digging.

  I'm not yet willing to cut my clothes, especially with how bad the wind will get soon, so I pull out the knife I made. Very clearly coated in blood… great, that explains it.

  Carefully unwrapping the stone, then using the cloth to patch up my hand. Taking another drink of water and sitting for a moment. Things have to be different this time.

  I turn around to see the pit of hell I've made. The walls are coated in blood. I was lucky the earth was soft or it would have been much worse.

  I lie back down, I'm not ready, I close my eyes again, it's quiet, the woods should never be such a thing.

  What am I going to do?

  The cold hits the back of my neck as it prickles again.

  It cuts through all the clothing I have, I force myself to stand. I let the wind push me. I'm not hungry, I'm not thirsty even if I was, just thinking about doing anything makes my teeth grind.

  I made my way over to the tree line collecting sticks and branches the forest was willing to gift to me. And well I kept walking.

  A soft rain started following me a bit closer than it ever had before. My camp is far from the nearest flood lines. But nature is as unpredictable as people are. I'll need to keep an eye on it.

  And with how much daylight I spend retracing my tracks it may be time to put up some signals with no animals scratching trees that may be a good place to start. But my knife will need to be repaired first.

  I found clothing on the cliffside before, or whatever was left of them. Maybe it's time to head back? The trudge north was far from pleasant but the wind was at least at my back.

  The rain started to get a bit heavier from showers to sleet.

  I'm not surprised by the sleet, the old things freezing near the surface before hitting the ground as water once again. It’s common, but definitely not welcome.

  But the showers are a bit more merciful, the storm slowly makes its way overhead as it's moving through. I tucked myself under a rigged old fir tree, something I haven't done since I was a child. I want to go home, I don't want to do this anymore.

  This takes a whole new meaning to feeling out of place.

  “At least I get to hang out with you huh.” I say looking up at the fir sheltering me.

  I could talk to the trees forever and they'd listen, no matter how long I was away.

  I think that's why I like nature so much.

  They stayed, and the evergreens were always my favorite.

  They never changed.

  Any day, any year, any season, they're still there, the same look, the same place, the same feeling of being safe hidden within them separated from it all it was like being held… comforted.

  I could use that.

  I still haven't figured out how I got here,

  I haven't figured out why this place is so… dead.