Hunted
A bit of writing based on @aaytaro-gt ‘s Inktober prompt list.
Day 11 - Monster
==
Dear journal,
I ruined my last sock today. The hole in the sole did not hold up well after the rain yesterday, and my foot tore through it this morning. That leaves me 100% sockless now.
I still have my boots, as worn down as they are, but the chafing is already annoying since I’d been swapping which foot my sock was on last week. I might need to use those dinky sandals now, but they’re not really made for rugged terrain.
I miss when I first got here and my pack was full of the gear I’d packed for camping in the Catskills. When I’d wandered amongst the trees that were as tall as I was, watching tiny deer and little bears scatter at my feet.
It was weird, but I had what I needed. Now that it's been nearly two years, I just miss things my size. I miss bathing in warm water. I miss eating normal food, I miss latrines. I miss my friends, my parents.
The writing smudges out
Sorry journal, They found me again. Not that it's hard for them to find me, I leave giant trails, but they caught up all the same.
I miss not being treated like a monster.
When I first came across the village in the mountains, I hadn’t known what to do, but the villagers wasted no time riddling my clothes and arms with arrows. They stung, so I ran.
They must have told someone about me, because these hunters, for lack of a better term, started popping up all over the valley. I’d leave if I could, but the mountains are very cold and tall and the only pass between them is through the village.
I’ve tried talking and reasoning with them, but they speak a language I don’t know; it sounds like nothing I've ever heard before. I wonder if they’d even listen anyway.
The only saving grace is that I think they think I'm harmless. They’re not trying incredibly hard to kill me, which I’m sure they could, given time, and I have made sure not to harm a soul.
Hell, I even saved one of the hunter’s lives when a boulder nearly crushed him! I don’t think he’s come back at least, but the others always do.
One is a barrel chested man with a crossbow and two dogs. The bolts stick in my skin like large splinters, and it's hard to not hurt the dogs as they run between my feet. I usually just run as fast as possible until I reach the highlands past the river, then I just try to hide in the mountains until the barking fades away.
Another is a trio, wielding bows and arrows lit with pitch or tar. Those three have ruined most of my clothes, destroyed my sleeping bag, and they even stole my matches! They don’t pop up as much, but they’re always shouting what I can only imagine are insults.
There's a pair, who I think are married, that hunt me on horseback, another group that seem more like mercenaries than hunters, some kid who probably just wants a name for himself, and many more that come and go as the seasons change.
After two years you’d think they’d stop, you’d think they’d realize I didn’t want to hurt them, I didn’t want to scare them: I just want to go home.
14 notes
·
View notes