Instinct

The restless night passed. The sun shone. The child awoke to its light. The horrific episode from the previous day had dulled ever so slightly for the little one. It was still taken aback by the scene it had encountered. It didn't know why it felt that way—only that it had witnessed something deeply unsettling. But the world wouldn't let it linger on the thought any longer, for it had already been quite some time since the child had last eaten. It had to do something.

Before it could contemplate the events further, hunger struck—sharp and sudden. Nature wouldn't allow idleness. In nature, there are no infants or adults—only survival.

So, before nibbling on the nearby leaves, the child, driven by curiosity, turned to look once more upon the land that had so traumatized it. Though fear still clung to its mind, curiosity took hold. It set aside the leaves and gazed beyond the bushes—toward the battlefield.

But to the child's surprise, the innards of the dead elk were gone. The ground where it had once lain was now struck clean. Only the dark blood absorbed by the soil remained, leaving behind faint stains.

The child blinked, puzzled. It couldn't understand what was happening. So many events. So many unknowns unfolding since the moment of its birth—and no one to explain any of it. It couldn't take it all in—and perhaps it didn't need to.

Before the thoughts could root deeper, hunger surged once again, fiercer than before. There was no time for reflection.

It nibbled the leaves, but no matter how much it chewed, they brought no relief. Hunger gnawed deeper. It dropped the leaf from its right back hand, picked another with its upper right arm, and chewed—but again, to no avail.

The illusion of fulfillment from mere nibbling had finally faded.

Desperate, the child rolled across the jungle floor, toward the place it had first awoken—beneath the up-arched root of a towering, majestic tree. It scooped up a handful of soil with its tiny arms and brought it to its mouth. But again—nothing. No nourishment. No strength. Only dirt.

It tried to cry—but no sound escaped its weakening body. It rolled, helpless, searching for anything. But there was nothing.

Until—finally—it rolled onto a thin trickle of water that snaked across the jungle floor near the great tree. Without thinking, without hesitation, the child began sipping.

The water tasted… sweet? Metallic? There was something more in it than just water.

And sure enough, with each sip, the emptiness within began to fade. The water, enriched by the jungle, carried vitamins, minerals, and life. For the first time since birth, the child's body began to fill—not just in illusion, but in truth.

Its stomach filled.

Sleep threatened to take it again. But instinctively, its hyper-attuned senses wouldn't let it sleep in such an exposed place. A deep sense of insecurity rooted in its being.

It looked around, seeking refuge.

Its gaze settled upon the nearby bushes—where it had taken shelter the previous night. Though uncomfortable, with constant buzzing and tiny stings from insects, it offered some sense of safety. Its body ached, but there were no other options.

So, it rolled toward the thickets. Nestled among the leaves, it spread its four arms wide—two from the shoulders, two from the back—and let sleep take it. Despite the constant discomfort, the child's senses dulled. Camouflaged within the bushes, the child finally rested.

Day passed. Shafts of sunlight filtered faintly through the canopy above, casting a reddish glow on the forest floor.

The child awoke at dusk. Beyond the bushes, it looked again toward the place where the two elks had once fought. The red of blood was barely visible now—muted, overridden, and covered by a thin layer of soil.

There wasn't much left to see.

The child, driven again by hunger, began pushing itself out of the bushes using its right arms—heading toward the same stream that had filled it earlier.

But just as it moved, a flurry of sharp chirps broke the air. Birds. Then came the cries of the trelks—urgent, loud.

A warning had been issued.

The child froze. Its senses surged.

The hunger it felt was immediately suppressed by instinct.

It backed into the bush, heart thudding, waiting. It didn't know what it was waiting for—but it trusted its instincts. The same instincts that had kept it alive this long.

The warning calls grew louder. The birds above. The trelks in the trees.

The child's body went still—its breathing shallow. Eyes fixed to the dirt below. Ears alert.

Then it felt it. The screaming of its senses.

The same as it had felt two nights ago, when fear alone had lulled it to sleep.

Now those senses returned—stronger than ever. They consumed the child so completely that it could no longer hear the cries of the forest.

Its mind was swallowed whole by the storm within.

Every second grew more unbearable.

The child didn't dare move. Couldn't even look toward where the danger might be. It simply froze.

Its gaze locked on the ground.

Breathing, gone.

Sweat ran down its skin.

It was the worst day of its short life. And perhaps even worse days were yet to come.

Thump…

The earth trembled faintly.

With each step, the ground shook.

Closer.

The creature—unseen—moved past the child, just beyond the thicket. Its massive body brushing against branches. But the child still did not look.

Only when the tremors faded, and the screaming within began to quiet, did the child dare to breathe again.

One long breath.

Exhausted by fear, hunger, and the weight of survival, the child collapsed right where it was—among the thorns, stings, and buzzing insects.

And there, sleeping in this uncomfortable land, stung by many insects, oblivious to it all in its deep sleep.