Six Years Later
Sunlight seeped through the cracked, dust-choked windows of the abandoned slave house, breaking itself into thin, golden shafts that stretched across the rotting floorboards like tired fingers reaching for warmth. The air inside was stale, heavy with the scent of mold and forgotten suffering. Each beam of light caught drifting clouds of dust, particles swirling slowly and aimlessly—like memories that refused to settle, remnants of lives long erased.
I lay curled on the splintered wood, my body drawn inward as though trying to protect what little strength remained. The floor beneath me was cold and unforgiving, its jagged edges biting into my skin. My breath came shallow and uneven, each inhale scraping my throat raw, each exhale weaker than the last. Hunger gnawed at me relentlessly, a dull, burning ache that pulsed through my gut and clouded my thoughts until nothing else mattered.
"I'm so hungry," I muttered. The words barely escaped my lips. My voice sounded foreign—dry, cracked, hollow.
With effort that felt monumental, I forced myself upright. Every joint screamed in protest, my limbs trembling from days of starvation and exhaustion. When I staggered toward the doorway, the house answered with a long, aching groan, its ancient wooden frame protesting my movement—as if resentful that another soul was still clinging to life within its walls. I stepped outside anyway. Staying meant death. Hunting, at least, offered the illusion of choice.
The forest swallowed me whole.
I walked for nearly thirty minutes through dense underbrush, pushing past thorny vines and low-hanging branches that scratched at my skin like they meant to claim me. My vision blurred at the edges, and my legs felt numb, more memory than muscle. Each step drained me further—until something moved.
A small white rabbit hopped lazily across a clearing, its fur clean and untouched, almost glowing against the green and brown of the forest. It moved without fear, unaware of me entirely. I froze, instinct taking over, pressing my back against the rough bark of a thick tree. My chest barely rose as I held my breath.
There was no way it could see me.
"Should I chase it?" I whispered, my lips trembling. "I don't think I have the strength."
My stomach answered with a sharp, hollow growl. My legs shook beneath me, threatening to fold. Chasing it blindly would only drain what little energy I had left. Instead, I stayed still, watching—hoping the creature might lead me somewhere easier, closer, weaker.
Time stretched mercilessly.
Hours passed. Twelve long, grinding hours of silent pursuit. I followed at a distance as the rabbit moved from shadow to shadow, until it finally settled near the edge of a calm, glassy lake. It nibbled at small flowers growing along the shore, completely at ease. Its ears twitched at every sound—alert, yet unafraid.
This was my moment.
I crept forward inch by inch, every step calculated, every breath controlled. In my left hand, I gripped a dry wooden stick; in my right, a small rock smoothed by time and water. My feet barely disturbed the ground—until panic surged through me.
The rabbit was finishing its meal.
If I waited any longer, I would lose it.
Fear overrode caution.
I broke into a sprint.
The rabbit startled, spinning around just in time to meet my eyes. I hurled the stick with everything I had left, my muscles burning as the weapon flew. It struck—but weakly, grazing instead of killing.
Instead of fleeing, the creature lunged.
Pain exploded across my chest as sharp teeth sank into my flesh. A scream tore from my throat. The rock slipped from my grasp as I clawed desperately at its fur, trying to tear it away. My balance failed in the struggle. The world tilted—
—and vanished beneath me.
Cold water swallowed me whole.
The impact drove the breath from my lungs as I sank beneath the surface. In the chaos, the rabbit released its grip. I kicked upward, coughing violently as I broke through the water's skin. When I surfaced, gasping, I saw it—disoriented, scrambling along the shore.
I seized the chance.
With a surge of desperate strength, I flung the rabbit away, sending it tumbling several feet across the wet ground. The distance bought me seconds—precious seconds.
My chest heaved as I scanned the water, vision blurring—until something caught my eye.
A rusted rod floated nearby, half-submerged, likely discarded long ago and carried here by the current. Its surface was eaten away by time, jagged spikes protruding along its length like cruel teeth. It was unstable. Dangerous.
But I had no choice.
I grabbed it.
The spikes bit into my palm immediately, slicing flesh and drawing blood. Pain flashed white-hot through my hand, and a cry slipped from my lips. Tears welled in my eyes—but I clenched my teeth and tightened my grip. Letting go now would mean dying.
The rabbit had recovered.
Water splashed violently as it leapt toward me once more, eyes wild, teeth bared. There was no fear left in it—only desperation, mirroring my own. I raised the rod and swung with everything that remained in my body, emptying myself into that single, reckless motion.
The jagged spikes screamed through the air.
They struck flesh.
The impact was sickening. The rabbit's body shuddered once, then collapsed into the shallow water with a dull, final splash. The lake grew still again, as though nothing had happened.
It did not move.
It was over.
My legs gave out. I dragged the lifeless body onto the shore and collapsed beside it, my chest heaving violently as I struggled to breathe. Every muscle felt torn, hollowed out. My injured hand throbbed in time with my heartbeat, blood dripping steadily into the lake, thin red threads dissolving into the water.
I didn't wait.
I lifted the rabbit with shaking hands and tore into it with raw urgency. There was no ceremony, no hesitation. Hunger ruled me completely. I ripped flesh apart with my teeth, swallowing without thought, without taste. Blood smeared my lips, warm and metallic. I ate everything—meat, organs, sinew—anything my body could take. Survival allowed no disgust, no mercy, no restraint.
Only when my stomach finally stilled did I stop.
I drank from the lake, scooping water into my mouth again and again until the burning in my throat eased. Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself to my feet. My body still felt fragile—hollow—but for the first time in days, it obeyed.
I was ready to leave, ready to drag myself back to the house, when something caught my eye.
Near the edge of the shore, something floated unnaturally still.
Paper.
Curiosity stirred where exhaustion should have drowned everything else. I waded back into the lake, the cold biting at my legs, and reached for it. It was a poster—soaked, torn at the edges, the ink bleeding in faint streaks where the water had claimed it.
As I stood there, the lake washed me clean. Blood slid from my hands, my feet, my clothes, my mouth—dissolving into the water as though the violence itself were being erased. I felt cleaner. Lighter.
No less broken.
I lifted the poster closer.
Printed on it were faces.
Human faces.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I stared, frozen. They were smiling—expressions I had never seen before, eyes full of something I could not name. Familiar, yet utterly foreign. It was the first time I had ever seen humans captured like this, preserved on fragile paper.
"Huh…?" I whispered. "Who are these people?"
The writing beneath the faces meant nothing to me. Symbols. Marks. A language beyond my understanding. I traced the shapes with my eyes, trying to force meaning from them, but they refused me. Still, I couldn't look away.
After a long while, I lowered the poster and looked at the flowing water.
"I should just follow the water," I said softly. "I think they lost this."
The decision settled quietly but firmly in my chest.
Tomorrow morning, I would follow the trail.
Wherever the river had carried this poster from, it might carry me too—toward answers, toward people, toward a world beyond hunger and hiding.
And maybe—just maybe—
Toward something more than survival.