The Initials | Nanowrimo 2023

80| Displaced Angels

It is both a blessing and a curse to feel everything so deeply. Like the prickling blades of grass digging into the soft skin on Cloud's back or the pungent, charry, smell of ash that lingers in the air.

He gradually opens his eyes, finding himself waking in the woods, staring up at a dull, empty, sky. All alone, feeling wet and sticky.

Thrusting himself into the sitting position, he peers down at his bare torso, finding the scarlet culprit clinging to his bruised knuckles and sprayed across his muddy chest.

Only afterwards does he notice the dead carcass sitting just a few paces away from him. The deer, or at least the head of what formerly resembled a deer, lays motionless on the uneven ground, seemingly left discarded after its hind legs were gruesomely removed with only part of its liver and intestines remaining.

It stares back at Cloud with its glazed over eyes, the only semblance of life remaining being the tiny parasites swimming around in its eye like fish in a tank.

"Again?" he mutters, scrambling onto his bare feet after hearing the sounds of the forest, almost slipping because of how numb his legs feel.

The revolting smell of rotting meat makes Cloud heave, the feeling only intensifying as he spots the other wild animals laying dead on the ground, deliberately placed to surround where he had once been sleeping so peacefully only moments ago.

It's been a few months since the last time something like this had happened and seemingly all attempts to rid his memory of the smell of death have failed as it has burnt itself into the inner hairs of his nostrils so that each encounter feels worse.

Cloud limps away from the charred patch of exposed earth, wincing with each painful step as he climbs the nearest bank to gather his surroundings.

Although he can't feel the cold, he is partly grateful that he still has on his boxer shorts, even if they are covered in a thick cake of mud and grime, sticking to him like a heavy layer of extra skin.

It only takes a few seconds for him to figure out the way home, surprised to find himself so close this time. These episodes of missing time usually send him much deeper into the woods. Closer to where it happened.

He sighs, grumbling the very first words that come to mind to quieten those thoughts. "Great."

Cloud saunters his way to the nearest dirt path his parents spent weeks setting up, trekking through the woods on their off hours of their already busy lives.

The alternative would be spending their time mending the tiny cuts on the soles of his feet which had always proven difficult with Cloud being the patient.

The sky becomes progressively brighter by the time the residence made of wood and glass comes into view and Cloud places the time at anywhere between four to five in the morning, having always hated summers in Everwood for their terribly long days and increasingly short nights.

It's an entirely different ball game in the winter months however. The sun hardly exists at that time, reminding him yearly why he never audibly complains about not being able to sleep with sunlight bursting into his room from the windows opposite his bed.

Cloud sneaks in from through the sliding glass doors, finding the door left slightly ajar from when he escaped in the night. It must have been left open the entire time he was gone as there is a chill that holds around ankle level like an invisible smog.

Not wanting to wake his parents, Cloud sneakily tiptoes into the downstairs shower that was indeed installed for situations just like this, but even his lightest step adds to the blueprint of his movements by leaving a trail of muddy feet through the house.