Grit

The Beginning

It's wintertime now. That's why I started writing. The days are all so short, it seems, with night stretching far out on either end. Sometimes it feels like there's only enough light in the day to collect another few armfuls of wood from the pile outside, then sit by the fire and scratch more letters into the piles of scrap paper I have. They're old newspapers, mostly, though scattered into the aggregation are some empty envelopes and the occasional paper bag. I always take everything I can from the Dross, as I've taken to calling it. It's a place about a six hour hike from here where everything in the world that's ever been lost or thrown away seems to end up. Empty cans, rotting food scraps, broken jewelry, hubcaps, cigarettes both whole and used, and, most importantly, paper. I wrestled for a time with myself in the beginning over trying a cigarette. In the end I decided that I couldn't waste the energy on an addiction, no matter if it took my mind off of things. Because once the Dross ran out, that would be it for me. That was already too close to reality, and I didn't need that end coming any sooner.

I've worked too hard for it all to end because of a cigarette. There's no one out here to treat the imminent lung cancer. There's no one out here at all, aside from me.

Whoever you are, reading this, I hope you take the time to know my story. I won't live forever, no one does. I at least want someone to know what I've seen, what I've done. Whoever you are, I hope to God it wasn't you that killed me.

Me. I haven't looked at myself in months now. I'm tall, and skinnier now than I've ever been. Winter has meant the loss of whatever muscle I used to have – it has wasted away while I've spent my days sitting by the fire. The food shortage hasn't helped.

My hair was blondish at some point, but the edges that hang down into my grey eyes are closer to brown now. I suppose if you're holding this paper, you might know.

Anyway. I'm going to tell you my story. But not like this. It's too personal. And I have time to burn.

First, my name. You can know me as Gale. That's all I can ever hear in these mountains anyway – the wind. It's almost like it never stops blowing.

That's how my story begins. With the wind.