Sixty-three

The canopy of trees is dense. Very little sunlight passes through the foliage, keeping the forest lighting to a semidark. The forest is cool, the ground is damp, and here and there a few clusters of ferns populate the areas where a light passes through.

Birdsong, echoes all around me, as they merrily jump from branch to branch in their search for food or water.

The thought of stopping to make a trap in the hopes that some oblivious creature might walk right into it does cross my mind. But I'd have to set camp and waste probably a day to catch anything.

Instead, I decide to push forward and settle to forage on whatever I can find. I know it's not sustainable but I can't linger for too long in one spot. The longer I stay in the forest, the harder will be to get out.

Sheer determination is the driving force behind the shipwreck my body has become.

A source of fresh water would come in handy, but so far I haven't come across one, and intently searching for one would deviate me from my course and I can't risk getting lost.

I follow the same routine with the dedication of a person who suffers from OCD. I have to, I can't afford any distraction and on the plus side, it keeps me focused on a singular goal. Getting out.

The shadows of the trees shift in the forest and I know that the sun has changed position in the sky. Since I don't have a clear view, I have to pay attention to details.

Other than that not much happens around me, but the peacefulness surrounding me is almost like a balm to my soul. I don't even remember ever feeling this content.

No expectations. No rules to follow. Not much of anything.

Even though I'm lost in a godforsaken forest, somehow, I feel at peace.

Unfortunately for me, as the night descends over the forest, there is no clearing ahead of me and I'll have to make do with what I have.

Since the wood is damp that means it will be a cold night.

I find a tree, the ground around it blanketed by a thick layer of moss, the canopy above me extremely dense. The air feels heavier, thicker making it difficult to breathe and I know that it's going to rain. I recognise the petrichor scent pervading the forest anywhere. It's a storm.

I plop myself on the moss, lean against the tree trunk and hug my knees to my chest in the hopes that this way I won't get soaked when the downpour comes.

Slowly, the forest darkness announced the fast-approaching storm front. It doesn't take long before the first drop of rain hits a leaf above me, and I can't help the shudder that runs through my body at the chilly breeze that sweeps over the forest ground.

They say that when it rains, it pours. And it does, torrentially. It rains like the heavens have opened and dumped ten years' worth of rain in one hour.

It doesn't last long though, but when water begins to trickle down the tree trunk and soak my flimsy shirt, I find myself in need to move, shivering against the cold wind that stirs the leaves above me allowing a decent amount of rain to slip past.

Despite my best efforts, by the time the storm passes, I'm soaked all the way through, shaking like a leaf in the wind.

I try to curl up on myself to preserve as much heat as possible but to no avail. I'm exposed to the elements and I have no choice but to push through.

The downpour slowly turns into a drizzle, pushed left and right by the wind, and I can't stop shaking.

Eventually, I passed out due to exhaustion or the onset of hypothermia, still not sure which claimed me first.

When I come to my senses, it's daylight. A beam of sunlight pushes through a gap in the canopy. My clothes are still damp, I'm still shivering but not as violently as I did before I passed out.

I push off the ground, to check my wounds. And realise that sadly, the rain hasn't made things better. The biggest one looks like it is infected, and I need to get out of the forest before the infection turns to gangrene.

I feel around the wound, lightly pressing on the edges of the gash to see if there is puss or blood that comes out.

To my dismay, when I press a little harder something yellow mixed with blood oozes out, leeches down my leg and then disappears into my boot.

Whatever it takes, I need to get out. That's the only thought that crosses my mind as I wipe the mixture off as gently as I can, and push myself to stand.

I pick up my makeshift crutch and begin my trek anew. I can't stop anymore to mark the path or the trees, it takes too long.

I assess the risks of roaming through the forest and conclude that as long as I keep going in a straight line I'll find the edge of the forest. It can't go on forever. Can it?

I'd rather not duel on that, as I make headway through the trees, disturbing the fallen leaves, and dirt as I go.