A Deadly Bite

34 || Lost

My feet hurt. As I trudge through a patch of thick mud, the soles of them throb as if they have thudding heartbeats of their own, pulsing shockwaves of dull pain from within my worn, dirt-covered shoes. My ankles are stiff and heavy as I force them to keep moving.

Around me, a forest sprawls. Shadows of bouncing branches slide over me in a maze of lines, most of them teeming with a kaleidoscope of fiery leaves, auburn and crimson and yellow. I want to stop and gaze at them, to find them pretty, but I can't. Simple joys like that are slippery, dripping through my fingers like rays of cold, weakening sunlight and into dark patches of shade. The corners of my mouth won't lift from their drooping frown.

My toes drag, splashing up watery brown droplets that speckle my trousers. The former indigo of their fabric is slowly but surely retreating, overtaken by the forest's grime, lurking solemnly in the background as dirty streaks scale their creases. Coming to a momentary halt to catch my breath, I peer down at the tiny, murky puddles sitting in pockets of the uneven ground and run my tongue over my cracked lips.

I wonder if I'm allowed to drink water like that. My scratchy throat says yes, but I know deep down it must be wrong. Mother would probably say so. Father would definitely instruct me, very firmly, not to do that. It would be bad for me.

Neither of them are here to tell me anything at all, but I tear my eyes away all the same and carry on, gaze meandering to the cloud-puffed sky instead. The sun has been travelling too as I have; it was poking over the horizon ahead of me when I started walking, but now I have to crane my neck over my shoulder in order to see it disappearing behind the jagged row of mountains. A whole day, gone again. I count it on my fingers and add to it the days before, the other days of autumn forest and puddles and walking. And the day of finding the forest. That might make this day number four.

Or five? Have I lost count already? Frustration jumbles my thoughts, and I give up, curling my hands into fists at my sides as my heels slap the ground, crunching leaves. It only serves to hurt my feet even more.

I want to go home.

A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow thickly, clenched teeth trapping in a whimper. I pull in a shaky inhale. My legs want to collapse, but I have to keep them pressing on, placing one foot in front of the other, getting further and further from the strange, broken place I ran away from five days ago. That wasn't home. I'm just lost, and if I keep looking, I'll find Mother and Father hiding somewhere in the undergrowth or at the end of this shadowy woodland path. They're waiting for me. They must be worried. That's why I have to keep going.

But when I do find them, Mother will pull me into a warm hug. She'll cook me a nice meal and comb her fingers through my hair, and Father will tell me a story. He'll carry me when my feet hurt too much to walk. Then they'll both take me home.

My stomach grumbles. I wrap my arms around my middle, pulling my cloak in as I do so. It's only a summer cloak; the violet material is thin and floaty, only covering the upper half of my torso, and it simply flaps a little in the whistling breeze rather than fighting back the cold. It doesn't make me any less hungry, either.

Mother will have food, I think, stumbling over a tree root that juts from the path. She'll have plenty of food. I'll find her soon.

The sound of running water trickles into my awareness. My head jerks up, something like animalistic instinct drumming in my chest. I change course without thinking and speed up, ducking past bony branches, listening hard for the sound as it morphs from a distant tinkle to a light peel of thunder, though it still feels like forever before I finally see the stream.

Skidding to a stop right before it, I stare. Glittering crystal rivulets clamber over one another and glaze past smooth pebbles, running an impossible race down the slight slope that curves to my left. Sunlight catches on the water in tiny yellow-hued flecks. I drop to my knees and shove my hands into it, trying to capture a pool to drink from, yet my fingers drag instead through wet soil and grit, and the water I collect is tiny. I bring it to my mouth anyway. It drains through the gap between my palms and plops back into the stream, until all I can gather are a few droplets that soak into my tongue.