A Path Home

Although the sun had come up, he had no relation to what time it was. The fog that had begun to seep out from underneath the leaves that littered the forest floor only disoriented him more. He couldn't tell if the haze that was spread out before him was blocking out the moon or the sun. Everything around him had an eerie glow to it - a sort of aura that made him uncomfortable, like he could feel the life force oozing out of everything. Including himself.

As he pushed on, it was becoming harder and harder to stay upright. The gash in his abdomen had only continued to open with each step. He could feel his skin pulling - fighting the strain, trying to stay together, but losing. The blood had soaked through his shirt and run down his leg, matting down his hair, congealing and constricting his movement. But he couldn't stop. He knew, somewhere behind him, they were searching for him, tracking him, ready to bring him back to prison. Luckily for him, the fallen leaves all around him had turned the ground into a sea of red, concealing the droplets of blood that had managed to travel down the length of his leg and past the cuff of his pants. His only hope was to tread lightly, not leaving a path of disturbed leaves and pray that the men behind him hadn't brought out the hounds.

All that coursed through his mind was how he couldn't go back to his cell. The 10'x10' cement box that held no promises other than boredom, suffering, and death. He hadn't deserved to be placed in there. It was an unfair trial. A crime pinned against him that he didn't commit. It had been years since he had seen daylight. Locked away, below the surface. He had been forced to fight. The guards cheered them on, in their own sick version of a gladiator arena. There was no other option. It was either kill or be killed. So he did. It made his body harder, rougher, beaten down. It destroyed his mind. Weakened him, ate away at what made him human. Until he couldn't take it anymore. He missed his life. His wife. His kids.

So he broke free. Everything had gone so smoothly until the razor wire caught him. Reached out and kissed him through his jumpsuit. It was so sharp, slicing like a surgeon. Clean, quick, and as straight as could be.

By now his mouth was dry. His legs were sore. Joints throbbing. It wasn't possible to go any further.  So he stopped, falling to the ground. He breathed deeply, letting the smell of the rotting forest around him invade his nostrils. Damp, decaying leaves. Lush moss. It was a smell he had always loved since he was a kid. It was cyclical - carrying with it the smell of death, but also the smell of life. It was pungent, invasive. It made him smile. Allowed his mind to drift away into a peaceful place.

He swore the haze was encroaching on him, moving closer, ready to envelope him as soon as he gave up - carry him to some unseen part of the woods, away from all this. He just wanted to go home. It was almost time. The fog was only growing thicker by the moment, almost touching him, but keeping its distance, as if it was skittish of the man that had fallen down in front of it.

His eyes were growing heavy. Too heavy to keep open.

But before he let them fall shut for the last time, he swore through the haze he could see the outline of his wife and kids, standing before him, ready to welcome him home.