Hollow

Samuel Junior never knew the forest. He had lived there all his life, but it didn’t feel like home. His mother told him of distant lands with clear hills and fantastic views of the sea. He never cared for that. He always said that he would’ve been content with sitting somewhere comfortably to enjoy the sunset. Such thoughts always brought warmth to him. Yet, the forest never let him forget itself. The wind howled with icy fangs, and when winter came, it bit deep.

He took off one of his gloves to feel the almost warming numbness pulsing on his fingertips. Some time ago, he would’ve expected his father to tell him to keep them on, but those times were long gone, and no one was there to tell him now. His hand struggled with the soggy gloves; their clammy lining stuck to him, freezing his rejuvenated hands once more. He questioned whether his parents had actually gotten used to the cold or if it was just another one of their made-up lessons.

Beside a malformed tree, a trail of hoof prints scattered off into the distance. Junior puffed out a sigh of relief. He was going in the right direction, after all.

Be patient, his mother’s words reminded him; listen and you’ll see. He always found those words stupid. The prey was on the move and was only going to get further away if they just stood around doing nothing. Moving forward was patience enough. And Samuel had to keep going. Just thinking about what awaited him at home made him shudder more than the cold itself. Whatever he was chasing was going to tire eventually.

Hours passed and the sky turned into a shade of grave purple. Yet, it was only when Junior felt the stiffness in his boots that he snapped back to himself. His senses dulled, and he could feel the heaviness of his own weight. Once again, he would return home empty-handed. He could already taste the sourness of the dried meat awaiting him.

By the time he reached the clearing, the cabin crouched there lifelessly against the treeline. The smoke had long since been absent from its chimney. Samuel couldn’t call it home even if he tried to. He forced the door open; the hinges creaked in protest, and he was welcomed by a stale warmth that sickened him.

Drenched in rags and other substitutes for blankets, his mother was where he had last left her, beside the fireplace that had burnt out long ago, breathing in short and ragged rasps. He called out to her and, as he expected, wasn’t met with a response. Perhaps he could wait one more day.

After starting the fire, Junior felt like he could finally thaw. He peered into the clay pot, finding only a few scraps of dried meat. Frustrated, he ripped one in half and started chewing on its leathery surface.

Junior missed the days when the sun would be a given, how its rays would caress his skin like a fine piece of silk, and when he would bathe in it on a field of grass more comfortable than any other cushion. The thought of never feeling it again broke him more than he had imagined.

His hand brushed the interior of the pot again and was met with its cold, empty bottom. His stomach growled, gnawing at him for more. He checked the pot again, then looked through the jugs and the cabinets. Anything would have been fine.

From the fireplace, his mother’s body convulsed into a coughing fit. The sound captured Junior’s attention, but not his gaze. He had never thought about it until now, but what would he feed her if she woke?

Junior had been feeding her boiled water with nothing but a pinch of salt and a few mushrooms he could salvage. He didn’t want to admit it, but he would’ve preferred if she didn’t wake up. Yet, no matter how meager, a part of him still wished for some helpful advice right now.

Her arm looked worse than before. The parts around the teeth marks had swollen and blackened the skin. Junior tightened his grip on the knife and told himself that this would save her. Cutting it away would strip away whatever infection there was from her body. The first cut was shallow. He had hesitated as he felt her breathing rattle in his other hand. Then, when it stopped, he pressed the blade down again.

After the grueling task, he had expected a moment of relief. What followed was nothing as such, for his eyes met her open gaze. They were not seeing, judging, or pleading. They were but a washed-out glass of something that had once been a face.

The cabin smelled of smoke and foul iron. Junior could almost taste it. For a moment, he stood small and fractured, a boy waiting for a mother who would not wake.

When morning came, Junior said he would bury her. For now, he held her cooling hand as if asking for permission. His hollow stomach answered him instead.

For a moment Samuel rested his eyes on the severed arm. Steam rose faintly in the cold, curling before him. He couldn’t remember deciding. He only remembered the crackling of the fire, how it licked and consumed without shame, and how it devoured its own source until it choked itself to ash.

When dawn broke, light spilled on her empty gaze once more. Junior turned her head aside, afraid that if he closed them, she might open them. Still, he couldn’t remain there, not anymore.

Samuel didn’t know how long he had been walking. Each step carried more weight than the last. When he turned, the shack was already gone, perhaps swallowed by the trees, which now loomed vast and unfamiliar.

He walked on, trying to live in his visions of clear hills, boundless oceans, and a sun that never departed. It didn’t matter where he would go. All he knew was that he had to get out of the woods.