You

It is page 1. You wake up before dawn. You are in your bed, a mat on the ground. You get out of bed. You brush your teeth. You eat your breakfast.

A certain percentage of you eat breakfast before you brush your teeth; do you not?

You get dressed. You pack your supplies. Dried food, cooking equipment and water. Tarp and rope for an A-frame. Shovels for a fire pit. Clothes, a head torch, several knives and a rifle. A bucket; no, two, a sponge and some bleach. You drive out to the mountains.

I am going to suppose that a high percentage of you do not, on the regular, visit your local mountain ranges, if a mountain range is even within your local vicinity; is this not true?

You drive up the winding roads. Up, up, up. You wipe condensed mist off your windscreen. Wipe, wipe, wipe. You arrive at the gravel parking lot. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

You take the off-road from the parking lot. It descends the mountain. The trees are thick here. It is still dark. The birds still sleep. The mosquitoes lie dormant. The frogs still croak. The cicadas still click.

Perhaps you are wondering what you are doing here? Perhaps you do not believe this is you. You think you can take a step back. What lies, oh what lies you humans tell yourselves! You say, 'I am not him; that is somebody else. There are many people.' You make me laugh!

You stop at a natural hot spring. Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle. The steam shimmers. It mixes with the mist. Hot and cold, right and wrong. Mix, mix, mix. The water trickles and pools. Like a witch stirring a cauldron. Slosh, slosh, slosh.

You are the stick.

Dawn slowly dawns. Venus can still be seen faintly. The first birds begin their calls. Ca-haa, ca-haa, clo-o ca-haa! Dead bodies hang from the branches. The mosquitoes begin to swarm you.

Does something feel out of place? Is it the bodies? Why, but it is perfectly natural for you, or should I say, You. Surrender this useless pretence. I know you.

You splash your face with water from the stream. Splash, splash, splash. You open your trunk. You remove the shovels. You remove the tarp. You remove the rifle. You remove the rope. You remove the sponge. You remove the bleach.

You open the back door. She lies unconscious in the seat. her hands are bound, and her feet are bound, and her mouth is bound. Bound, bound, bound. You take her out. You prop her against a tree. Feet hang close to her head. Hang, hang, hang. You splash her with warm water. She wakes up. You remove her gag. She screams. Scream, scream, scream.

I suspect none of you have been in this situation. None of you have murdered. None of you have kidnapped. And yet you have, oh yes, in a very real sense you have. For he has; and he is you.

You take the bleach. You pour the bleach on the sponge. The sponge becomes soaked in bleach. You splash the bleach-filled sponge on her eyes. She screams in pain. You repeat this process. You are familiar with this process.

Yes, yes you are.

She begs for mercy. Beg, beg, beg. She pleads with you. She says that you don't have to do this.

The greatest of all lies. You don't have to do this.

You connect a rope between two trees. You tighten the rope. You hang the tarp over the rope, forming an A-frame. You pick up the shovel. You dig a pit. You fill the pit with leaves and sticks. You light a fire. Crackle, crackle, crackle. The fire is warm, and she is cold. She is blind now. Still, she begs for mercy.

Choose.

You tie a noose. Now you must choose between mercy and murder. You have chosen murder before. Decisions, decisions, decisions. Which do you choose?

Perhaps you have never read a choose-your-own adventure before? Well, in case you have an aversion to trying new things, you are in luck! This is no such story. You have no choice.

You choose murder; it is your destiny.

You choose. You.

So, in the familiar forest that you have visited many times before, you hang the girl, just as you have hung many others many times before. It is all familiar to you. You return to the car which is yours, you pack away the supplies which are yours. You watch the rising of the sun, as you have many times. Rise, Sun, rise. The sky is painted a satiating blue. You have seen it this way before. It is all familiar. It is. It is.

It is. Isn't it? Don't lie. Remember, this is all...

You, you, you.

***

The noose was tied somewhat shoddily; the man had never gotten a grasp of it. After all, he was self-taught. The girls neck had not broken immediately. Instead, she squirmed around, flopping like a fish. Her breath was going. The man watched in satisfaction from the safety of his A-frame. Perhaps a slow death was better than a short one. What a strange idea?

Once the girl was sufficiently dead, he rose, splashed his face once more with the warm water from the gurgling spring. A wash of regret passed through him. What had he done? In the light of the morning Sun, the scene which he had seen as home suddenly became alien. Rotting carcasses drooped like strange fruit from bowing branches. And this girl...beautiful. He had ruined her beauty. She too would rot, fade away, fall into decay. The whole wood had become hostile to him. The sinister melody of the birds, ca-haa, ca-haa, clo-o ca-haa! The croaking of frogs, the mosquitoes, all of it. It haunted him.

Don't be ridiculous. This is your home. This is where you belong.

This is not where he belonged, he felt with sudden clarity.

But what could you do about it? You have gone too far to turn around. Do not lie to yourself; I hate when humans lie to themselves. Lie to others, but not to themselves.

You don't have a choice.

The man concluded that the voice was right, if only... He didn't have a choice. He couldn't undo what he had done. He couldn't rewrite the wrongs of his past. Was there anything he could do? Could...

***

You drive your car. Drive, drive, drive. You drive it very fast. Fast, fast, fast. A tree approaches up ahead-

Stop!

Would you like to continue forwards, or swerve and return home? If you choose to continue forwards, put this story down. If you choose to swerve and return home, turn to page 1.