The World Turned Upside Down

Throbbing.

That’s the first thing I feel as I wake up — a terrible, unrelenting throbbing in my head. I can hear it too, and see it, pulsing in painful flashes of red and white. If this is anything like a hangover, I swear I’ll never drink another drop of alcohol again. Not that I ever have.

My face scrunches as I try to sit up, only to groan and fall back down as the pounding doubles in strength. I bring my hands to my head and cradle it as best I can, but I know there’s not much I can do; time is the best remedy for this sort of thing. Or at least, that’s what I’ve always told myself.

I’ve never been a huge fan of medication. It’s not that I don’t trust my GP, because I do, it’s just that I’ve always preferred to do things my own way, without help. Even if it’s just a tablet.

That being said, I could really do with some meds right about now.

With nothing to do but wait, my eyes open, then slam shut as the sun meets their gaze, burning a large, bright dot into my sight. I hate those little things, whatever they’re called, and this one will probably take half an hour to clear up. So, on top of the splitting headache, I’ve been temporarily blinded. Perfect. What a lovely way to start the day.

But this wasn’t the start of the day. Otherwise I’d still be in bed, instead of…

I shield my eyes and look to my left. There’s grass. A lot of it. I can feel it on my cheek. Under my back. Brushing against my legs and arms. There are flowers too, and a few rocks and pebbles. Some way off in the distance is a forest on a hill, which… doesn’t look too inviting, for some reason. I swing my head to the right and grimace as the throbbing strikes once more, then open my eyes to find more of the same, but this time with a few mountains blocking the horizon.

I try sitting up again, struggling to ignore my aching head, but I’m stopped by a sharp pain from my knee and slump to one side. For a while, I wait there, panting as I build the courage to examine myself, then wince as I lean forward and stare at my leg.

My ankle’s red and swollen, but not nearly as much as my knee, and neither of them like being touched or moved. They’re not broken, though, because I’m sure the pain would be a lot worse if they were — fractured, maybe, but I don’t have any experience to draw from. I hope I still don’t.

I squint and look around. A little bird hops and chirps through the grass, and a pair of butterflies chase each other across the meadow. The sky is clear and blue, but the sun doesn’t beat down as it usually does — it feels… amiable. There’s a cool breeze too, swaying the grass in long, gentle waves, and the air smells clean. Cleaner than I ever thought it could. There are no buildings, no roads, no anything. Just rolling hills and wilderness.

Where in the world am I? And how did I get here?

I was walking. I think. No, I was. I can’t remember where to, or why, but I was walking. Along a footpath. And then I was falling. That explains the busted leg, except… I didn’t trip. At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. It’s hard to tell. It’s like I was falling forward, but being pulled back at the same time.

But that doesn’t make any sense, and it doesn’t explain why I fell for as long as I did, or the rainbow-whirlwind thing I saw, or think I saw, or… where I am now. Or why this stupid headache won’t leave me alone for ten seconds.

Whatever happened, it all feels too real to be a dream, and there’s no way anything’s going to happen if I stay here and twiddle my thumbs. I need to get up and pick a direction and start walking — or limping, as the case may be — and hope that I’m lucky enough to find someone or something that can tell me where I am, and, preferably, where home is.

My phone’s lying on the ground a little way off to the left, and my backpack just a little further. I hobble over, pick it up and switch it on, and wait as it boots up in its typical fashion of taking forever, slinging the bag over my shoulders. It’s an old hand-me-down from Dad, and I’ve been meaning to switch it out for a newer model, but never got around to it, mostly because of all the mobile plans and extras. Of course, that was before I found myself in the middle of nowhere.

I stop when I think of Dad. Mum too. And I suddenly remember why I was walking.

The phone buzzes and brings me back. It shows the date and time and offers me a keypad, on which I type my passcode. No signal, predictably, and I’ll bet there’s no internet either. I switch it off and put it back with a huff. It was worth a shot at least, but telling myself that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Scanning ground again and triple-checking my pockets, all I find are my house keys and wallet, along with my credit card, learner’s permit, student ID, a chilli stand coupon, a few coins and a twenty dollar note. What use they’ll be out here, I’m not sure, but something’s better than nothing, I suppose. But what I really need is food and water. Dad’s fascination with the whole ‘man against nature’ narrative never rubbed off on me, but I don’t need to be a survivalist to know the essentials.

I just hope I won’t have to pull off a Bear Grylls.

The headache’s starting to fade. It’s strange. Granted, this whole situation is strange, but as well as causing me the most pain, it’s raising the biggest question: why? I mean, I don’t remember hitting my head as I fell, and it doesn’t feel like it either, so… why? And why is it so strong? It’s like the time I stubbed my big toe against the fireplace, but in my head instead of my foot.

Is it a migraine? I’m too young for those, aren’t I?

Best not think about it, in case I make it worse.

I take a deep breath and start heading for the mountains.

My mind wanders as I travel, and I begin thinking about how bizarre this all is. I feel like I should be angry, or scared, but I’m not. And I don’t know why. There I was, going about my business, and then I suddenly find myself far away from home with no food, no water, no tools, no training, and no connection to the outside world beyond how far I can shout. If that’s not a reason to get mad, I don’t know what is.

If anything, I guess I feel… bothered. Like it’s some minor inconvenience — another chore on a Sunday of housework. Maybe the gravity of the situation hasn’t sunk in yet. Or maybe, somehow, that’s how I really feel.

I blink and shake my head. I can’t change what’s happened, only my response, and those thoughts were the wrong response. Now is the time for action.

So much action.

Miles and miles of action.

Nothing but sunshine and rainbows from here on out. Minus the rainbows, of course.

…Maybe it’s better if I stop thinking for a while.

The terrain makes a sudden dive and I stop at the edge. It’s an overgrown riverbed, by the looks of it, and it’s a steep drop. Too steep, perhaps, but I don’t see another way around, and the rest of the bank doesn’t seem any more forgiving.

What’s really catching me up, though, is the tall grass in the centre of the trench. I’m no wildlife expert, but I know that a hidden ant nest is the least of my worries, and I can’t risk a bite without first aid. Snakes and spiders don’t really scare me, but what they’re capable of does. Still, this is the only way to the mountain, and seeing as I have to choose between wandering aimlessly and wandering slightly less aimlessly…

Well, the question spoke for itself.

Sitting down and shuffling forward, I descend the slope, wincing as I try to keep my bad leg straight. The going is slow and methodical, keeping with the journey up to this point, but I eventually reach the bottom and stand back up, dusting myself off as I do so. Then I pause, inspecting the way ahead. I don’t see anything, nor do I hear anything, so I suppose it’s safe to cross. If I really wanted to. Which I do. Unless…

I hobble over, pick up a stone and toss it in.

No reaction.

I pick up a larger one and throw it as hard as I can.

Still nothing.

I limp a little closer and examine the channel one last time before I take the plunge.

What’s wrong with me? Of course there’s nothing — I’m just being paranoid, aren’t I? If I don’t see anything and I don’t hear anything, it means there’s probably nothing.

I mean, I can’t be that unlucky, can I?

I grit my teeth and begin to cross.

Three metres. That’s all it takes. Three metres of ankle-deep mud and I’m beat.

That’s sad.

I don’t care if I’m injured; that’s just plain sad.

I know for a fact my old PE teacher would be disappointed, even if she’d hide it behind a box of sliced oranges. Sure, she was crazy, but Miss Bishop was a special kind of crazy — the irresistible kind. At least, that’s how I remember her. Every Friday she’d tell the class about where she’d been and where she planned on going, the places she’d seen, the people she’d met…

It was like story time in kindergarten all over again, but better.

In retrospect, of course, most of her stories sound a bit fanciful, but I like to think they’re true, like the time she spent eight weeks in the jungles of Borneo, befriending and nesting with wild orangutans.

Or when she crossed the Swiss Alps from east to west, camping in caves, on mountain tops, dangling from cliffs.

Or when she scaled and skydived from the Burj Khalifa.

Or when she met with the people of North Sentinel Island, after negotiating with the Indian government for several months.

Or when she walked from the North to South Pole, passing through every capital city in the Americas.

She was a living legend. A schoolyard hero. My hero.

And then she was gone.

Slipped and fell as she was climbing Mount Everest.

Some students started rumours that she was actually a secret agent, and her disappearance was a plot to send her deeper undercover.

I wanted to believe them. For the longest time, I desperately wanted to believe them… but when the rescue teams found her climbing gear… that kind of shut everyone up.

I remember the service in the assembly hall not long after. It was horrible. Not the service itself — that was fine — but sitting down and listening to everything the staff and councillors had to say… it just didn’t feel right. I didn’t know what it was, and I still don’t, but I didn’t want to be there.

I’m not going to end up like her. Not now, not ever. I’m going to climb this mountain, find my way home and everything will be fine. All I need to do is push.

I reach the base of the slope and begin my ascent. It’s gradual enough that I won’t stumble, but it seems to go on forever, and the terrain’s impassable halfway up. But I remind myself that I don’t have to climb the whole thing, just high enough. I check my phone again and discover that I’ve been walking for a grand total of three hours, twenty-seven minutes, and if I wasn’t sweating before, I am now.

The rocks are a little loose up here, so I have to watch my step. I can’t tell how far I’ve climbed, and I’m not going to check just yet — the moment I stop, the exhaustion will hit me like a sack of weights. I know because I’ve missed the university bus a few times and had to run the whole way, and that’s one of the reasons I never leave home without the Walkman. The first plateau I find, I’ll have a rest, but not a second earlier.

Soon, though, the adrenaline wears off, and all I’m left with is an arduous hike. The only way to cope is to break it down; one more step, one more boulder, one more patch of dirt, and if I can make it that far, I can drag myself a little further. And after a while, that’s basically what I’m doing.

If I’m supposed to be proud of my effort, I don’t feel it — I always imagined my greatest adversary being a masked thug in a downtown alley at night. Something physical. Tangible. Something with a face.

But no. As it turns out, my greatest adversary is chance.

A wall of rock blocks my path. The edge is too high and it appears to span all the way around the mountain, and I’m in neither the condition nor the mood to climb it, so I sit down, turn around and collapse. And when my breath is caught, I sit up and wipe the sweat from my face, then shield my eyes and look to my right.

The landscape is not nearly as bland as it first seemed — grass covers everything, but there are ridges, knolls, shallow valleys, and pockets of trees scattered all throughout the range. The same can be said for the terrain in front of me, though it seems to even out somewhat in the distance, but on my left, snow-capped mountains sprout from the horizon… and the moment I see them, I’m enthralled.

They are massive. Unnaturally so. I can tell because they’re far enough away that the sky and the earth fade into each other, and even there they stand like towering pyramids of freshly cut marble. In fact, what’s grabbing my attention more than their size is how pristine they look — no crags, no blemishes, no sign of erosion. I’ve heard about the beauty of the natural world, but this is something else entirely. This is… simply… mesmerising…

But it won’t solve the problem at hand.

I pull out my phone and turn it on, then select the camera function and zoom in as far as it will go. There’s too much contrast and the image quality’s horrible, but it’s twenty times further than I can see on my own, and that’s what matters. I hold it up and begin my search anew, and after about fifteen minutes of constant checking and rechecking, I conclude that I am, in fact, alone. And despite the lush environment, there’s not a single drop of water.

Except… there was.

Sometimes I amaze myself with my own stupidity.

I slap my forehead and look down at the riverbed; where there’s mud, there’s water, so if I follow the trail, I’m bound to find something. Uphill, it melts into a forest — the same forest, I realise, that I didn’t like the look of. From up here, though, it seems harmless enough, and when I zoom in on the trees closer to its centre, I see a clear, circular gap in the canopy.

Whatever grudge I held towards it has suddenly vanished — it could have been a jungle of thorns for all I care and it’d still be the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all day.

It’s wrong to get my hopes up, but it’s hard not to.

I switch my phone off and put it away, but just as I’m about to heave myself to my feet, something stops me.

A sound.

A very quiet sound — almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for a dip in the wind.

I sit frozen on my side, waiting for it to come again so I can pin its direction, and my patience is rewarded with a slight crack and a soft rumble.

A bulbous mass of clouds creeps over the horizon on my right. It’s not particularly dark, nor does it seem any more malicious than the average afternoon shower, but it’s so tall and vast that I’m surprised I missed it until now.

Another streak of lightning gives me pause, but I soon reject the thought; I know I’m not supposed to stand under trees in a thunderstorm, but I really don’t want to get wet, especially with my phone at stake.

Besides, there are hundreds of trees in that forest alone, and thousands in the surrounding landscape.

Really, what are the odds?

I can’t be that unlucky.

As always, it begins with a single drop.

I wipe the back of my neck and inspect my fingers to make sure it’s real, then look up and wince as another dashes against my cheek. They’re tiny — no bigger than grains of rice — but when it rains, it pours, and when I turn my head round, I see a wall of water approaching.

Bumping my stride up to a lopsided skip, I turn back and force myself onward, tailing the trench with a renewed sense of urgency. Of course, after about seven hours of travelling with a dodgy limb, it isn’t as easy as switching gears in a car; it’s a little too heavy on my foot, and I feel the headache threaten to resurface, but it gets the job done.

A flash flickers in the corner of my eye, followed by a thunderous growl so powerful, so… raw, that I feel it through the earth. It rattles me. Shakes me to the core. Makes me feel cold and hollow. And vulnerable. Like I’m a mouse fleeing a tiger — I know I can’t, but I still try, because I must. Granted, the consequences would be less severe, but in all my life, I’ve never been more than an arm’s length away from anything electronic, and I’m not about to lose the one thing that separate me from a caveman.

Lone droplets become a steady drizzle. It’s not enough to dampen anything — in fact, it feels more cool than wet, which is somewhat of a relief — but it’s a signal for what’s to come and how close it is, so I swing my arms harder and leap a little harder. I’m still pretty far away from the forest, and the pain in my leg is building, but if I can curb the urge to collapse for just half an hour more, I might make it.

Might.

The drops grow larger, heavier, more numerous, and the wind blows in short, ferocious gusts — so fierce that I almost lose balance the first few times. Over the racket of the gale and the soft pitter-patter of the rain on my skin, I can hear the steady drumroll of the coming deluge, and the crack of thunder as bolts of lightning tear across the sky and illuminate the earth. Try as I do, though, I can’t run any faster.

Ten minutes. Just ten more minutes. That’s all I need.

It finally arrives — a torrential cascade, so sudden that I barely have enough time to register the fact before my clothes are drenched, and so heavy that it feels like I’m standing against a waterfall. There’s not much I can do for my phone, except try to keep my trousers under what little shelter my back provides. But doing that slows me down, and every moment spent being soaked to the bone is a moment too many.

I let out a long and overdue roar of frustration and force myself to sprint the last few metres, and then fall to my hands and knees when I’m safely inside.

I stay like that for… I don’t know how long. Ten, twenty minutes, maybe? A bit more, a bit less? I don’t care anymore. I just want to get this whole thing over and done with. And if every other day is going to be like this, the sooner the better.

It’s dark in the forest. Darker than I thought it would be. But at least it’s dry, relatively speaking. Droplets trickle from the leafy canopy, some landing in my hair and on my shoulders, but imperfection is a small price to pay for the safety it offers. There aren’t any paths that I can see, which I should have expected, considering the isolation, so I limp around bushes and continue following the empty riverbed, leaning against a tree every so often to make sure I’m not being followed myself. By what, I don’t know.

I’m suddenly reminded of a similar incident from grade seven, barring a few obvious details, of course. I’d said something nasty to someone I didn’t like in English class, and, naturally, Mister Walsh had heard everything. He was normally just the Vice Principal, but he was acting as our substitute for the day, and he was notorious for his hard-line approach to bullying in all its forms.

To be fair, that’s what I was doing, and the more I think back on it, the worse I feel, but everyone knew he often mistook friendly banter for insults, and that soured the mood with a lot of kids. Or the kids I hung out with, anyway.

My punishment, he decided, was to stay after school and clean up the main undercover area. Every square inch. Including under the benches and tables.

There were food wrappers, crumbs, bits of leftover lettuce, carrot shavings, tuna, a slice of cheese so mouldy one could hardly call it cheese, and plenty of other rancid goodies hiding in the corners for me to find. And then I had to scrub the floor clean with a steel brush and a small bucket of soapy water, and I knew I couldn’t let a single stain pass, or else Walsh would have one of his talks with me the next morning.

I really hated those. Even now, hearing the phrase ‘strong word’ makes me cringe. I can’t remember anything specific about them, which may be for the better, but none of them were pleasant.

When I finished, it was about half past six in the evening, three hours after closing; the sun had set, the entire school was locked up and the carpark was empty. My parents, as it happened, didn’t get off work on Thursdays until about eight o’clock, which meant I had to run all the way across town in the dark.

Suffice to say, it wasn’t fun. I’d walked around on my own before, fetching groceries, running errands, so I knew my way well enough, but things change at night. Rumours about all the creepy stuff happening after sunset didn’t sound so silly when I was the only one on the streets.

After a full hour of nonstop jogging and looking over my shoulder, keeping to the middle of the road when I could, I finally made it home, and Mum and Dad arrived shortly after. Walsh must have forgotten to call them, because they didn’t say anything, so I didn’t say anything either. It was a good idea at the time, but it made things a little awkward in the next parent-teacher interview.

I think Walsh was fired shortly after graduation — something about overstepping his bounds as a caretaker. I’m still not sure how I feel about it, because, sure, he was uptight and bad-tempered, but I deserved it. And if nothing else, it taught me that being a janitor should be one of the highest paid jobs in the world.

If I were to guess why he was the way he was, I’d say he was bullied when he was younger, and thought it was his duty to set teens like me straight. And he succeeded. Sort of. He set me on the right path, at least.

But it took something a little closer to home to do the trick.

A shrub I thought I’d cleared catches my foot and I stumble a few steps, before finally losing balance and landing hard on my shoulder. Punching the ground, I take a look around to see where my carelessness has brought me.

To my surprise, a small lake lies just a few metres from where I’m resting, its surface dancing as the storm rages overhead.

A sigh of relief escapes me and I crawl to its edge, sitting beneath the shelter of an oak on the bank. The soil here is damp and sticks to my pants, but I’m well beyond caring at this point; all I want to do is drink.

After a quick inspection, I determine the water is sufficiently clean, then dip a hand in, bring it to my mouth and take a sip. It’s surprisingly cool, and maybe… a little… sweet? Or is my mind already playing tricks on me?

Whatever the reason, there’s a whole reservoir of fresh, clean water staring me right in the face, and it’s all mine. I plunge the same hand in over and over and over again until my throat’s no longer dry, then drag myself a little further and wash my face. Chilly, but refreshing. It’s no hot shower, but it’ll have to do.

I pull away from the water’s edge and sit against the oak, head back, legs straight, arms resting in my lap, watching the storm go by.

It’s actually quite peaceful when I don’t think about anything, and instead let my senses fill the void. There’s the rain, of course, mixing with scent of damp earth, wood and foliage. Thunder comes in gentle rumbles far off in the distance, and while they don’t have a smell, they’re strangely soothing. I remember lightning can strike anywhere, anytime, but I’m either too relaxed or too drained to care. Probably both.

Besides, it’d all be over before I knew what hit me.

I chuckle, then realise what a dark thought that was and my smile wilts.

It’s not healthy to be thinking like that, is it? Especially less than a day into this odyssey I’ve found myself on. Who knows? Maybe I was never sane to begin with. It would certainly explain a lot about my younger self. For all I know, it might even explain how I got here; I could have blacked out on my way to… wherever I was heading, and then sleepwalked myself to oblivion. To another dimension. To another plane of existence.

Yes, that’s it: I am ascendant — a guru who achieved nirvana on his daily walk, and this wonderful land, this boundless paradise, is my cosmic reward. Every leaf, every blade of grass, every grain of dirt, every drop of water… All mine. All for me.

All for my lonesome self.

I heave a sigh and droop my head. Even when I stop thinking, I can’t.

That’s when I notice a little blur in the corner of my eye.

I look up and my head turn left, and freeze when I see… something sitting on the edge of the lake. It has a short, scaly body, a long, stocky tail with red spines, batlike wings, birdlike feet, and the head of a fluffy rooster with a fleshy crest. It’s not too scary, though — I’m more shocked than anything — but I still have no idea what it is, or what it can do.

I set my palms by my sides and slowly begin to lift.

It looks up from its drink and peers in my direction.

I freeze again. Maybe it hadn’t seen me.

It jumps to its feet with a startled cluck, then charges at me, flapping its wings and screeching hysterically.

I stand up and back away. I can probably take it in a straight up brawl, even in my injured state — it’s not that big, anyway; about waist-high — but the sheer gall surprises me.

But it doesn’t attack. Or at least, not in the way I thought it would. Instead, it comes to a halt about three metres away and stares at me with wide, freakishly red eyes. So red, in fact, that I don’t see any pupils. It’s still not scary, but it is disturbing.

I stare back, not really sure how to react. If this is a way of dealing with predators, it’s a pretty poor one, and the longer it stares, the less creepy it seems. I almost feel sorry for it as I lean forward and try to shoo it away. Almost.

The creature blinks, I suppose in shock, and then rears up on its tail like a stool, reaching as high as my shoulders. It spreads its wings, doubles the intensity of its stare and shrieks, revealing a row of needle-sharp fangs just behind its beak.

I shuffle a step backwards and wait for it to pounce. But again, nothing happens. It just stands there, feet dangling in the air, glaring at me. Almost judgementally. I glance behind me in case there’s something over my shoulder, but see nothing.

It begins to waver, as if it were surprised that, unlike every other danger in its life, a meteor hadn’t come crashing down on me. Its tail relaxes and it slithers to the ground, then backs away with… a sheepish look?

Before I have the chance to pinch myself, the creature dashes through the underbrush and vanishes.

I stumble after it a few steps, but stop and simply gawk at what I think I just saw. But I couldn’t have seen it. I mean, the creature itself was believable enough, and there are tracks in the dirt to prove it, but… since when could birds emote?

Then again, seeing is believing. And my eyes have never failed me before.

I look about, re-establishing myself. Curious though I am, there are more important matters at hand, like finding a safe place to sleep, and building a fire in the rain. Besides, I’d be provoking it if I try to follow, and I can’t afford to make enemies out here, especially with teeth like that.

I dust myself off and start limping my way around the lake.

As I leave the clearing, the reality of what I witnessed finally sinks in, and the question of my whereabouts becomes that much more important. I can’t be that far from home if I recognise the types of trees, but then why haven’t I seen any planes in the sky, and why doesn’t my phone have a signal? I check to see if that’s still the case, and, predictably, regrettably, it is. I’m also pretty sure I would’ve heard about a weird dragon-chicken hybrid a lot sooner than today. A chigon? Dracken, maybe? Or… drag-hen?

The thought makes me snicker. It’d certainly be a sight, with a sparkling ruby gown, nails painted hot pink, turquoise eyeshadow, lashes full as the moon, and a headdress of peacock feathers. Too much of a sight, perhaps, because I’m laughing out loud now. I don’t really know why; it’s not even that funny, but I’m laughing all the same. At least, until the headache threatens to return.

I tone the cackling down to a giggle and lumber onwards.

But the feeling doesn’t go away, and instead follows me like a shadow. It starts off small, barely noticeable — little more than an ounce of pressure at the base of my skull — but with every passing second, the pressure grows. And grows. And soon I’m no longer smiling.

This headache is different to the one I had before. The last one throbbed and felt worse the more I moved, like it was angry. But this one… sits there, calmly and quietly, no matter what I do, like it’s waiting for something special but doesn’t know what. All the while, it continues to swell — not because it wants to, but because it doesn’t know any better.

I stagger to a tree and lean against its trunk, cradling my head. It feels heavy — so heavy that I’m afraid the slightest tilt one way or the other will leave me face-first in the dirt. I take slow, deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, just like Dad in his yoga lessons, but it doesn’t seem to do much. Maybe I have to be at one with myself first, or something like that. If so, there’s no way that’s happening when my head feels like it’s about to explode.

And then, as slowly as it crept in, it slinks away, receding like the tide on a beach. It leaves me drained, dizzy, and frankly rather worried, because I have no idea what triggered it or made it go away, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion that I’ve yet to hear the fat lady sing.

I push off and continue trekking through the forest, albeit at a more sluggish pace. If I’m right and this becomes a recurring thing, finding shelter is now top on my list of priorities.

The terrain rises, and I rise with it. There aren’t as many bushes here, and the trees are spaced a little more generously, leaving the soil soft and soggy. I slip and stumble as I move from trunk to trunk, but despite my condition, I never fall.

That’s when I feel it again. The pressure. The dizziness. The heaviness. More sudden too. I should have seen it coming, really, but… there’s something else. Something irritating. Tingling. Tickling. Like an itch between the ear and the mouth, but at the front of my head instead, and far more intense. Painfully so. More than an itch, actually; it’s a thorn, and then a bee sting, and then a rusty nail. And then a hammer drives the nail home.

Pain screams down my spine the with the fury of a thunderbolt and I yelp and collapse, writhing on the ground in agony. Something cold and sharp rakes against my nerves, and I can’t stand it. My heart races. My breaths are short and shallow. I want the pain to go away. I need it go away. But all I can do is curl into a ball, hug my head and rock back and forth, hoping, begging, pleading for the suffering to end, all the while shivering and whimpering as my pleas go unanswered.

But then it stops. Suddenly. Without warning. And I’m left panting like I’d run the university campus a hundred times over.

This isn’t a simple headache anymore — this is worse. Far, far worse. Dangerous, even. If something big, bad and hungry had popped out from the shadows, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I need to find safety and I need to find it fast.

I crawl over sodden dirt and grass and bumble to my feet at the top of the slope, almost falling again as I stand. I’m exhausted in every sense of the word, but I can’t let that stop me. I won’t let it stop me, because I am the master of my own fate, and if I want to survive, I will.

I have to. I must.

My heart skips a beat when I stumble for a second, but quickly recover and press on. I must have nearly tripped on something, but I’m not looking back to check. A pause, no matter how small, could make all the difference.

It’s strange, though, because it hadn’t felt like I’d bumped against anything, and I don’t think I’m so worn out that I’d be losing control of my body. But now that I think about it… my feet don’t feel as cold or as raw as they used to, nor do my socks feel as damp. In fact, it’s almost like I can’t feel the pain in my ankle anymore. Which is good, I suppose, but… doesn’t make much sense.

Unless…

I start running again, but no more than ten steps later, my knee folds and I flop on my face, skidding across the ground.

I spit the dirt from my mouth and pick the leaves from my cheeks, then lie on my side and look down at my legs. They’re filthy and drenched, but that’s not what’s bothering me — it’s the fact that I can’t move my foot anymore. Even as I clench my teeth and pour in all my will, the most I can do is wiggle a toe, and even then, I can barely feel it.

I scream. I lie on my backpack and thrash at the rain, slam my fists into the dirt, scream until I run out of air, then take a deep breath and scream again, and I keep screaming and thrashing until my shoulders ache, my hands throb and my throat hurts.

Nothing — not one thing — has gone my way today, and I am absolutely livid about it. I’m sick and tired of wandering through uncharted wilderness with no idea where I’m heading or what I’m doing. I want to go home, where I can have a nice hot bath filled with bubbles, followed by a week-long marathon of all my favourite movies and TV shows, eating blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, drinking apple juice from the bottle, wrapped in the warmth of a freshly dry-cleaned quilt.

But that won’t happen unless I make it happen.

As soon as my strength returns, I roll back onto my stomach and shuffle away on my elbows, growling with the effort, legs trailing behind me.

I drag myself around trees and plants, over mounds of earth and moss, across ditches and trenches, and through small clearings where the storm pelts my back. A story I once heard comes to mind, about a frontiersman who won a fistfight with a bear, and had to crawl back home over two hundred miles away. He probably had it worse, though, but I want to think I’m faring just as well as he did.

Eventually, everything becomes a blur; there are no new smells, no new sounds, and I don’t pay attention to where I’m going, only that I’m moving. Time slows. Or speeds up. It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to focus on anything, really, because I feel… strangely… at peace. Calm. Tranquil. Tired. So very tired… Sleepy. So… very…

There’s a tug on the back of my neck as I slump forward, and the feeling brings me back with a jolt. I shake my head vigorously, trying to wake myself up even further, but I can only do so much. Sleep lingers at the back of my mind now, distant, yet imposing, like an overhanging boulder.

Slapping my cheek, I look up and peer at the world around me. It’s more of the same: trees, bushes, moss, twigs, leaves, dirt, mud, rain, and a flash of lightning. There’s a dip in the terrain ahead, granting me a view of a clearing that was far larger than all the others I’ve passed, including the lake. A number of stumps and saplings form its border with the forest, and nestled at the far end… on the peak of a gentle hill… is a cottage.

I stare at the dwelling with wide eyes and an open mouth for a good, long while. It’s a humble abode, with stone foundations, white walls, and a thatched roof. It’s also fairly well-kept, as far as little shacks in the middle of the woods go, which I can only assume means — and I’m quite willing to believe — that someone lives there.

I laugh. It’s a stuttered, breathless laugh that makes all the hardships of the day slip away. After almost nine hours of nonstop travel, I’ve finally done it. With a huge smile on my face, I wave my arm and shout at the top of my lungs.

But then I stop, and the good feeling goes away. Frowning at myself, I try to speak again.

Just like before, the words come out in a slurred, garbled mess.

I scramble forward and stop at the edge of an earthen cliff. It’s a sheer drop, punctuated with exposed roots from top to bottom, left to right, and the only sign of it ending is a hundred or so metres directly away from the cottage.

My insides sink as I whine miserably, knowing that if I don’t cross here, I’d run out of energy and fall asleep long before making it to safety. Even now, as I come to terms with the fact, the drowsiness comes again.

With a despondent groan, I turn as far as I can on my side and push my legs into place, then roll on my bag so I lie parallel to the edge. Having no feeling or control below the waist is a very odd, very unnerving experience, but I can’t afford to dwell on it.

I don’t want to. It’s scary enough as it is.

I hesitate, staring at the sky, wincing as droplets fall on my brow and cheeks from the maple above. I’ll only get worse with every moment I waste, but I can’t help but dread the next part.

Still, there’s no time like the present.

I hug my arms around my head, take a deep breath, and slide off the cliff. Just over a second later, I land face-down in a puddle with the wind knocked out of me and a few new scratches and bruises, gasping and cursing through my teeth because, by some unfortunate miracle, I’d bumped my knee on the way down.

At least I’m not as numb as I thought I was.

I look up with a squint and find, to my relief, that the cottage is still there, and is still in mint condition. From this distance and this angle, and without the forest blocking my view, there’s more detail to see; it has a chimney, rounded corners, a small timber shed, a simple door, and two shuttered windows hiding a faint orange glow.

It’s not a hallucination. It can’t be. I’ve come too far to be shot down now. Someone definitely lives there and that someone is definitely home.

My arm swings out so I can start dragging myself again, and I try to swing the other. But I can’t. It’s stuck under my body. I look down and struggle to tug it free, then pull, then heave, all to no avail.

But… that’s okay. I still have the other arm, after all, and besides, the cottage isn’t that far away, relatively speaking. I can make it.

Probably.

I hope.

Slowly but surely, I waddle out of the puddle on my shoulder and elbow and drag myself into the clearing proper. It’s only slightly less flooded than where I was before, and the heavy rain isn’t making it any easier, but it’s a start. One metre down, two hundred to go.

And then my shoulder goes limp.

I turn my head and stare at it with wide eyes, and something in me snaps. It’s been threatening to snap for quite a while now, and I’ve been trying my hardest to keep it hidden and keep it together, but I can’t help myself anymore.

My breathing becomes frantic and my jaw trembles. Something’s happening to me and I don’t know what and I don’t know how to control it and that scares me. Terrifies me. More than the freezing rain, more than the searing pain, I feel terrified.

Terrified by the fact that I might actually…

But… I can’t be that unlucky… I just… can’t…

I snap my attention to the ground in front of me and claw at the grass. Roots tear, dirt moves, a hole forms, water collects; I go nowhere, and yet I keep trying, because I have to. Even as I feel my arm slacken and the sweet promise of sleep fill my head, I try.

I shout at the house on the hill. Yell at it. Scream at it. Beseech its owner to come outside and help me, or at least open a window and show me they care.

When pleading fails, I insult it.

When insults fail, I plead.

When my body fails, I cry.

But I never stop trying.

Not for a second…

I never… stop…

Trying…