MCHC: Vulnerability, Panic

I'm greeted by the cold morning air, just barely held back by the heat of my fire. It's shrunken since last night, significantly. I could've sworn I put more firewood. "What else is new".

As I rise up, I can feel my wounds ache. I gaze at my bandage, blood soaked, moist. Beneath it I can still feel my gash, raw, fresh, like I'd just been bitten minutes ago. Like something unnatural held it open. "Fuck, I'll have to get this treated."

Moving to the cupboards, clutching a pitcher of water I poured myself, I slip on a robe, grumble something about hardtack. Eyes still cracking open, hands moving sluggishly. I roll up the sheet in front of the window, scribbling a few notes into my journal, munching on bits of soaked ship's biscuit. For a moment, all the paranoia, battles, and fighting for my life feel distant. For a moment, I feel safe, at peace.

It's a little later, I slip my jacket on and sling my axe over my shoulder, knife still handy beneath my belt. Bandages are too moist, the damned wound's bled too much. It's hard to dress it properly when these fucking rags won't stay still.

I step out the door and breathe in the morning air. Briefly eyeing the list I made, my attention diverts towards the forest in the distance. I quickly fold it back up and start making my way, watching my step, knowing the ground can be uneven.

The sun is shining, brightly, almost unnaturally so. The rays cut right through the morning mist that disappeared seemingly the moment I stepped outside. Furthermore, I'm taking care, knowing I can get tired fast. I can swear with each step my feet sink into the earth, grass sticking to my boots lightly, each step cumbersome.

I stop at the first good tree I see. Not too thick, enough timber to last me. My eyes scan up and down the trunk, looking for a good place to begin. My first swing connects, a piece of bark flying, I used to be a lot worse at this. As I ready my next swing—something moves, off in the distance. I swear, I saw someone or something move. I'm pulled away from the tree. My stance lowers briefly, axe positioned in front of me, still ready to swing. I remind myself of the knife on my hip, ready to draw it if whatever's out there comes too close.

A moment of silence passes. For a second, I hesitate. I drop my stance and resume chopping, cautiously. My eyes dart from tree to tree, looking for some proof that what I saw was real. I'm barely paying attention to my own tree. Just as I lower my gaze, I see it—again. A vague dark shape in the distance, two glowing bright eyes piercing into me, peering from behind a tree. For just a second I see them—standing there just staring at me—only to vanish back into the darkness. My heart catches in my throat. I try to remind myself it's not real. *You've dealt with this before. If it really wanted to attack you, it wouldn't bother stalking you like this.* I try to stay calm, but it doesn't keep my breath from trailing off, my hands from shaking.

Consciously, I quicken my pace. I don't feel safe. I grip the axe tightly, my breathing slow yet slightly panicked. The last few swings fly by, messily, poor form. As soon as it tumbles, I rush to tie a rope around it, dragging it home, refusing to look back.

Whatever this world considers a cool morning has passed, and it's given way to pure high noon. The sun beams down even brighter, like it's trying to kill me. I stick to the shade of the trees in that same forest I was in near the path to the river. Stalkers be damned, there's something here I need.

My eyes scan across the floor, searching around the stumps of the trees. As I go to relight my torch, I find them—mushrooms, just a few. Red and brown and a few other types that I don't need. I bend over, tossing them into my basket as they land with a rustle on the bunched-up flowers already inside. "Okay, this should be enough."

The image of that stalker lingers still. I'm refusing to look again, staring down just focused on following the path, except, something's different. *"That rock—I don’t remember seeing that. That tree—was it always there? No, I was following the path. Where’s the—"* I pause, realizing what's happening. "Fuck, not again."

Minutes pass and I'm trudging through the forest, panic building inside lightly, worried I'm only getting further from home. "I wish I still had that compass." I can hear more sounds building around me. Something shifts from behind. A branch, cracking under weight. Footsteps build, almost like several of them are gathering. I shouldn't have gone this deep, should've made a clearer trail. How did I let this happen again? The gash nags at my attention, reminding me why my focus is off today.

With the trees high and their leaves thick, you're lucky if any light even reaches the floor. I don't know if it's been minutes, or an hour, or several hours. The passage of time blurs, I let some of the panic get to me knowing what'll happen if I'm still out at night, especially with this wound. I start pacing, then it builds into a light jog, then a heavier one, then, I lose control.

I'm running, caution at tripping or running into something thrown to the wind. My basket smacks a few times into the oncoming shrubbery, contents swishing around inside. I feel fear, bubbling deep in my chest, outweighing how much energy I'm using. My breath stutters as relief slams into me. In the distance I see a light, like I were staring at the beginning or the end of a tunnel. My pace quickens further, my eyes completely locked onto it, unblinking. I'm sprinting to safety completely uncaring if I trip or hit something, subconsciously fearing that I'll blink, and in that split second this ray of hope disappears just as the path did.

And then I get out, the sight of the familiar open field and my house in the far distance waiting for me, bathed now in a golden evening sun. A moment of disbelief passes before relief slams into me. I collapse onto the grass. My chest heaving, sweat dripping off me, trickling down my neck. It hits all at once. For a brief second my mind lets go. My fingers still twitch around the spiraling basket handle. My ears in disbelief strain for footsteps, breathing, something—anything at all following me. Nothing. Just the wind. Halfway to catching my breath my hand quickly coils around the spiraled grip of the basket's handle. I pick myself up from the ground and continue, still reeling from the imaginary chase.

An hour or two later. In the comfort of my home, I'm sat against the wall, journaling. Brief summary of today, crossing items off a list, taking stock of resources, the occasional drawing. Some of my notes are more random, distant, as if separate from everything that's happening. I finish my final passage and snap the book shut with an exhausted sigh. I move to the fire again, leaned forward, inspecting the pot before stirring again.

A handful of brown and red mushrooms, acceptable whole but ideally diced for efficiency. The head of an oxeye daisy, a bright red rose, and the petals of a cornflower. Beyond that, whatever you like; hardtack, salt or sugar for flavor. Other flowers if you want too for color, but only after the first three ingredients have combined.

Once ready, I take my crudely carved-out bowl and scoop out a serving of the mix. I sip at it, eyes closed, letting it course through and warm me from the inside. It's like I already feel better.

I briefly peek through the blinds of the window. I see the light of something in the far distance, like they're searching for me. The moon shines down, more neutral now—somewhere between a bright white or a spacey light blue. I'm taking care to be quiet so they can't find me. I yank the blinds shut while I sip at the mixture. My mind travels to the journal on my bed. *"For old time's sake,"* I think to myself. I flip to the beginning and begin reading.