You Can't Go Home Again (Day 49)

The darkness was swirling around him. The wait for his eyes to adjust was interminable. He was still moving, but his pace had slowed considerably. He was covered in bruises and scratches and the adrenaline built up in his system was beginning to slowly drain away, replaced by a terrible weariness. His breaths came in shallow and ragged gasps. He had traveled so far already, but he felt no relief. He was sure he could never run far enough away. Even if he could see the woods around him he knew he wouldn't recognize his surroundings. He'd never gone this far before--not even close.

He began to hear the crickets chirping and the calls of owls. These sounds had been there for hours but only now were they coming into focus. Drenched in ice cold sweat, he began to shiver. Soon, he fell to his knees less than gracefully, landing in a pile of damp leaves. There was the hint of rain in the air. The man didn't relish the thought of getting caught in a rainstorm, but there had been little time for forethought in his situation. If he could only find a small cave or ditch he might be relatively comfortable for the night. But he was bitterly tired and lacked the strength or will to move from the spot. As his vision blurred, he was aware that he would not be awake for much longer.

--

Bleary-eyed and still exhausted, the man was stirred from his rest by an insistent thunderclap. He let out a muted groan and struggled to push himself to his feet, discarding his heavy and sodden cloak. Pushing his mop of tangled, matted red hair to the side, he stumbled forward a few paces, grimacing at the waves of pain emanating from his exhausted muscles. He had little idea how long he'd managed to rest; the sky was still dark but considering the state of the weather there was little he could infer from that. Rest was out of the question now, but his pace would certainly be slow and miserable if he chose to continue. 

The young man cast his gaze skyward, struggling to make out any details. He could see nothing, but he did draw some small comfort from the feel of the cold rainwater on his filthy face. He rubbed away some of grime and rinsed his hands with the rainwater, subsequently running his fingers through his tangled hair. With his cloak now discarded, his hair had gotten quite wet. It was plastered to his scalp now, just slightly tickling the lower part of his neck. He thought for a moment that he'd need to find some way to cut it. Maybe he could find a sharp rock. He grimaced at the thought.

"I. . .don't know what I'm doing." The words were drowned out by the roar of the rainwater crashing down from the tops of the trees. The words sounded foreign to the man, like they were coming from another's throat. How long had it been since he'd spoken aloud? He recalled screaming himself hoarse before he'd set out into the woods. And then silence. He'd not dared speak, or think, until he'd reached his destination. Was this it? Was this his destination out here in the middle of the woods, miles away from those who knew him? He was alone and he'd told no one he'd gone. Still, it wouldn't take a great deal of critical thinking to figure out why he'd left.

He'd done something that could not be undone. He'd made a mistake that could not be rectified. Maybe he only had one choice left.