Pressed Opened
Pressed Opened
I was cold all the time. When I slept, it was with my back in the corner, my legs tucked under me. I woke often to the furious shaking of my body.
It took me three days to learn how to build a fire. Sickly and small, I fed it the thin blue twigs I found on the forest floor.
At night, snuffling creatures would snarl and bump at the door and I would scream nonsensically, howling and growling with a garden spade in my hand.
In the daylight I would forage. Nothing was familiar but I learned the bitter yellow berries were safe to eat while the red nuts that smelled like cinnamon made me sick with fever and swelling. The small purple berry on the pink-leafed bush was a hallucinogent of sort and I hoarded those jealously.
I set traps daily. The last of my twine was used to set snares against the trees. I dug holes and placed sharpened sticks in them, hoping the bits I remembered from camping and TV would coalesce into a meal. Continue reading