Creative Writing, My Writing

The Forest

I know I shouldn’t be here. I was cutting though the forest to get home quicker so that I would meet curfew but I feared from the second that I stepped into the forest that I wouldn’t make it across before dark.

I was right.

I was roughly three quarters of the way through the forest when I head the tell-tale sign of them being released. The unmistakable creaking sound of the tank being drained and opened. A sound that is usually dulled by the walls of a house.

There are horror stories about being trapped in the forest overnight. Those that live to tell the tale tend to go crazy. They aren’t usually physically hurt; it’s their mentality that’s scarred. The mechanical sound is all they can hear in the silence. The sloshing sound of water emptying rings in their ears reminiscent of a sea shell but with none of the childlike innocence. The slight scratch of fins as they float pass the tress haunts their dreams, makes them nightmares, makes them scream themselves awake. That sound is always described as the worst. It’s the tell-tale sign of where they are. It’s how you know they can smell where you are and how you know they are coming closer. How you know that soon you will be confronted with an everlasting circle of them around the top of your head with their unblinking eyes watching your every move.

The only advice you are ever given should you find yourself trapped in the forest is to stay low. They can’t risk getting their gills filled with dirt or leaves. But that is easier said than done. That piece of advice doesn’t prepare for the fear that the survivors describe. And the ones that don’t make it are just found in lumps of flesh and bone. Some get killed by the electric fence that descends on the forest for the night to keep them in. Others think being higher than them is for the best, but climbing the trees will get you killed quicker. Will also make your body harder to identify. They prefer either way though, as long as it results in your death they get what they want.

The victims don’t even have time to scream, they swarm in with a smile full of teeth, jagged and tinted a blood red and attack. The only consolation from that I guess is that the death will be quick.

I’m huddled as close to a tree as I can get right now, just waiting. For what I’m not sure. I don’t know how much truth there is in any of the tales I’ve been told. It’s just a waiting game. Waiting until they find me. And hoping I make it out of the forest with at least some of my mental health intact.

If only I hadn’t taken the shortcut through the forest so close to dark.

I’m scared.

sign off 2


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