There was nothing like watching a break of dawn. How the growing-igniting ember of tiniest ball banished night from forevermore. Euca though, beheld it with the same level of interest on how green the grass was, how tall the trees were.
Which if not obvious, was zero. Big fat zero.
It was not something of prominence. It was nothing of import. It was everyday mediocrities that as replaceable as one click on a locked phone. Its just time.
All right, all right it’s not just time. That was snarky him talking. Annoying little pest that acted out as a part of what he wished a healthy coping mechanism.
The sun, its position at least, meant that morning had arrived. Telling him it’s high time to moved from his sad-sack-slash-existential-nervous-breakdown and chose which of the following responses were more fitting; sigh of exasperation or cursing out loud.
And as a reasonable man himself, the answer was obvious: the former. Display of such blatant —even though warranted, like totally warranted— emotion would damage one social standing. So why bother?
However, this well-reasoned conclusion unfortunately not shared by everyone involved. A certain expletive-expelling individual which for propriety sake shall not be named, ripped the morning silence by shouting the Lord name in vain through the air.
He though, the poor victim of receiving end, while disagreeing with such poor conduct, nodded understandably, knowing that this poor fellow stimulated by a righteous anger-induced adrenaline.
A very reasonable thing given the circumstances.
Still, that fellow behavior brought unwanted consequences; leaving his poor lonesome self with a lack of that much needed adrenali —self control.
After all those adrena —self control had managed to keep the cold at bay. Now the fello—he —the fellow? he? Argh...
All right, all right, the fellow was him. It was him who shouted and it was him now who must wrestle with the stupid nerve signals who since last night decided that constantly alerting him not to die of cold was their most important mission.
Which was awful. Not because he was unthankful. He would be devastated if somehow he put his hand on the burning stove and not feeling it because his nerve was too chill.
It was awful because he couldn’t do anything! Look, he already pushed his arms even deeper. Rubbing, slithering up and down into his already thin sleeves. Trying to reached last linger of heat his body selfishly decided to waste because they loveed to obey this stupid thing called entropy.
It didn’t even pause to think that the whole pathetic rubbing was the extent of his capability. Like his total extent. He has no blanket, no fire, no shelter. And knowing all that, it somehow still decided that giving up heats for free was the best course of action for their imminent survival? Seriously, so selfish.
Look body, all he had with him were only three things; himself, what he had on his person, and yesterday exhaustion threatened to set its final claw. So be mindful, okay?
Not to mention the next stupid things, also piling on him. You knew how bad lucks —the damn cowards— were, always coming together. Yes, he’s talking about hunger. Stupid, stupid hunger.
And not just a simple hunger. A silly little grumble that could be sidelined three hours later. It was the gnawing kind that made you snap when your best friend said a second following line after you answered their stupid perfunctory ‘nice weather we’re having eh’.
Well, half of it was his fault. Because his stupid self ate for his last meal a paltry leftover; half of an egg salad sandwich.
Well to be fair to the innocent him, he didn't know he would end up like this… No one would. Still as a rule, he should have a proper breakfast no matter how hectic morning rush was. It just good sense.
Five minutes. It only took a freaking five minutes to whip a scrambled egg. Less, if all did was pouring cereal's in a bowl of milk. God, he could drink three glasses of that now. But no. He chose to clamp down that damn ...delicious, creamy, finger-sized sandwich! Oh! The tangy note of the mayonnaise. How it contrasted divinely with—
"—Gurgle..." not with you, he chastised his stomach. With Sal's ketchup!
He took a look to his side. His only companion, slung by shoulder blade. A water bottle. It was that casted wood pattern's fancy he got when Patergie's having their lunar new year sale. Since yesterday, he'd been sipping its content in futile attempt to distract himself.
Yet, he couldn't help but to do just that. Even when his rational self told him not to.
Like right now.
“Well, I’m dead.”
He cursed his weak will. The pang, the mind monkey of instant gratification who won yet again. He watched with both trepidation and shameful anticipation as his hand, clammy, reaching for the bottle cap.
Centimeter by centimeter, a touch, a turn, and—
—Splosh.
He stopped.
His hand stiffed on the half-opened cap. Sighing, he turned it back clockwise. Closing it tight.
The sound.
It hit with loud vibrato that blared a mostly empty container. By its trailing echo, he guessed that he has a third, perhaps a fourth left.
And for all he knew, he still has a quite of trek to go.
It was a half hour later when he stomped his step stout. Trying to push indentation of his diminished soles to grip more friction. It's not easy. The mud was fighting him and he almost slipped twice. Joy, he knew.
Several steps ahead he stopped. A stick was poking out from a bed of wet leaves. He could do a walking stick. He needs all energy that he can spare.
Aside from how it’s a tad bit wet surface, the stick seemed to be dried. Which was perfect. But it also shorts, which was not. He tried it for a hobble. Parroting Mr. Cerecero, his across-door neighbor.
...And no. It won’t do. He has to crouch to use it. Well, not much, just by a length of his palm maybe. But walking stick supposed to help him walk, not adding another layer of danger.
Looking around, he saw nothing better. Others were either too large, a twine, or infested with some kind of slimy white bugs.
Sighing, he let the stick dropped.
It was just like yesterday. Because it did just happen yesterday. He rolled his eye. Making dad joke? Well, with how the wind blew, hypothermia would set in by the end of the day if —when— he failed to found shelter.
So what few self-deprecating jokes?
And he did already trying to imitate those desert island's contestants —he tried rubbing two sticks together, resulting in mild rash. Then, he tried to tell north by the side of moss growth. Which was hard, since THERE WERE NO MOSSES, and he did see a setting sun. So yeah ...that one wasn't his brightest.
Finally, he put his ear on the ground. Listening for water streams. Which of course, if it's not obvious by now, failed.
Looking at the fallen stick, he reaffirmed his sigh. He’d better get going...
And as he walked, trying hard to not slip, or stepping in some weird crawlies, he wished at least had a… he didn’t know! A freaking destination?
For now he just walked north. One straight direction. Why? Well, because he lost.
Yes, yes. Lost. Lost with capital L. He hated to admit it but that how it was.
It was late afternoon when he awakened in what he dubbed as "nowhere forest". A surprising turn of event.
Ha! Surprising? What he meant was harrowing...
In the tenth of seconds after he woke, he dug deep to his know-how of disproving a dream; from the all popular pinching himself, five digits addition, and memory recall by reciting his family tree.
The result? Not encouraging.
Saving the case that he truly had too far gone —his constant staying up until 2 a.m. was indeed an early-onset Alzheimer's risk factor— he was certain that he in fact, wasn't dreaming.
Thus, his. Well, his likely addled-brain, pointed out that next logical conclusion —which has the same level of veracity as his first guess.
He had been a victim of kidnapping.
Admittedly, it's a far-fetched, nonsense logical leap that he, a reasonable person who can separate their reality of daily grind from the excitement of movie plot, should be able to tell. Yet, he could not, for the life of him could think another reason for his thousand miles of misplacement.
Perhaps one might ask? How about drunk driving? A drunk walking around, taking a midnight train, hitchhiked with a random stranger, and dumped in middle of inter-province road? Scoffing at that thought, he struck that possibility down.
One, he'd been dry since forever. Barring the seasonal cough syrup, never in his life, he consumed any alcohol in recreational capacity. That's why Derek sometimes called him, well, names.
Which was insulting, since he'd LOVE to accept more good-hearted juvenile bashing like party pooper, Mr.No-Fun, or even God forbid, Stiff.
But no. His best friend has to go with Permanent Designated Driver. Which is why he billed him twice the cab fee that day.
And two, he was what people charitably call, a homebody. He almost never went out of his city —his town if you cared about semantic— for recreational purposes.
Derek sometimes invited him to his family fishing trips. But that more going through the motion kind of thing, like when he invited him to attend his monthly people watching —which was NOT CREEPY, if you're doing it from park's bench and not following them for ten minutes to gather more data.
Still, they both agreed, unspoken of course, that the modern world has inflicted them with rather severe cases of FOMO. So better save the feeling of everyone involved.
Hence, what kind of kidnapper that would just dump his hostage in unknown forest? A maf —gentleman kidnapper perhaps? Who has an ongoing bitter rivalry with another gentleman group? His mind spun.
So they kidnapped him for whatever reason. And also for whatever reason, they found out his sorry ass was a burden in their impromptu, surprise-round, strategic retreat.
After all who was he in front of the important service of supplying the local populace with the much-needed, pharmaceutical-assisted escapism?
Luckily for him, —he felt dirty saying that— the forest itself was made of what seems to be a yellow-green colored birch. Yes. A forest. Not a jungle deep that his father’s side uncle often regale. Which meant no wild animal. Probably.
And then it happened.
On the hour deep he’s been walking, as his aching feet shouting its scream, he noticed the already sparsed trees become even sparser. The towering tree fewer, the slanted light brighter.
And as he looked at the rising sun hung high in the sky, he saw a brown cleared patch. Long, straight, flat. It laid there without tree. It laid there without grass.
He stumbled upon a road.
He’s safe!
He’s safe! He’s safe!
“... t—thank you.”
He heard himself chortling. A drop of tear slithered down by his nose and unto his throat. He rummaged his back pocket for handkerchief —it was empty. Hesitating for a bit, he blew his sniffles to the edge of his shirt.
Rubbing his nose, he stood. Still. Letting catharsis washed over him for a moment.
He soaked on the feeling for one glorious brief. Relief triumphed over ache. Hunger and thirst forgotten.
Taking a deep breath, he stopped. He must reassessed the situation now. Before the dread on the back of his head set in. Before this burst of dopamine recede. He proceeded to wipe his blurry eyes and started to take a good look. A real good look.
The road was wide. Perhaps. He was not an authority of road. But it could fit around three, maybe four cars side by side if the traffic officer look the other way and the drivers were really, really skilled. So that's good, no one built this kind of road unless it's used.
And used often it was.
With his sight cleared he saw wheel marks overlapping with each other. Indicating that the road was indeed well-traveled.
Still, he was not sure how to proceed, the wheel marks were lacking in ridges. Just a couple of twin straight lines, regularly spaced. Not that it mattered. Even if there were ridges, he wouldn't know. Derek would though.
Now he has three choices. One was going north, following the muddy path. Two were going south. Also following the muddy path. Three was staying put, waiting for someone to come by. He tempted to chose the third. His foot already sore, ached from all the walking.
But no... He was lucky yesterday night that he found a dried patch under a big canopy. He didn't even realize it was a tree until just he woke up, because God, it's enormous like the redwoods he watched on the docuseries.
But now… he took another look at the forest floor. The ground was either muddy or covered in wet leaves.
Hypothermia...
He must move.
He decided to walked north, continuing his previous route. He reasoned by how the trees were sparser, his gamble was proven right. North was closer to the civilization.
Or so he hoped.
He wouldn’t discount the possibility of he’s seeing things. Finding patterns where it didn’t exist on the first place.
After all, hope and denial were two sides of the same coin.
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