Page 56 of Palingenesis

A distance that … stretches taut in my chest and makes it harder to breathe.

Thick branches catch my arm and throws me off beat, slicing into my skin and I jerk away. The rocks below my feet are slick enough that my soles slip, my feet going different directions and despite my attempt to catch myself on anything I can get ahold of, I feel the bark and leaves slide right through my hands.

“Fuck!”

The world tilts, skies becoming the ground and rock faces reflecting the faint moonlight instead of the stars.

My side takes the brunt of the fall, knocking the wind out of me and stealing the cry from my lungs as my body glints off one surface only to hit another.

Then another.

Gathering my bearings is impossible as I tumble deeper into the forest’s clutches.

This is fucking it. This is how I die.

No one will fucking find me out here.

Even the trunks of trees spread out enough that there is nothing to feel between my fingers, nothing but sharp boulder faces chipped away by time and the elements.

My calf catches, the weight of me moving too fast, and I feel the snap before I can register what it means.

Body whipping around, the rock face releases its hold on me.

And for a moment, I’m suspended.

Nothing but me and the air to capture my battered body before the ground finally catches up, and I land with a splashing thud.

Water rushes over me, covering my face, with a promise to wash away the stain of me from its surface with a bruising force that bashes me into everything the river has already claimed.

I’m gasping, gulping for any chance at air and flapping my arms wildly to keep my head above the foamy tide that rolls and crashes, breaking only for the pieces of earth strong enough to stand against it.

Kicking my legs is like using a toothpick to stop an avalanche, my right gone too numb to know what the fuck it’s doing and for a moment, I question what the fuck I’m fighting so hard for.

This life hasn’t been anything I’ve ever wanted it to be.

There’s no memories flashing. No good thoughts or hopes of making it home.

I never had a home.

Or a person worth making one with.

My family is all gone, in prison, or incapable of believing anything outside of the traditional dynamic is acceptable to live a full life.

The friends I once had left when I hopped into Henry’s bed.

They told me, tried to warn me.

I wish I’d seen it then. I would have saved myself so much fucking time and pain.

Yet, I’m here, barely breathing and beaten to shit, washing up on the shore of some river in the middle of the fucking mountains. Alone.

Always. Alone.

I finally crawl onto the rugged bank with shaking limbs and collapse in a heap. My glasses are long gone, and one of my hearing aids is missing.

I’m trembling, the air too cold against my wet skin.

“F-f-fuck.”