The winds of the west prevail in the essence of twilight. The oceans of the earth lay omnidirectional, spreading like a virus across the crust. The many machinations of Knox’s mentality lay unprovoked upon the scorned terra firma of ‘The Isle of Helheim’, previously known as ‘The land of Jubilation’ until more recent times when an overwhelming gust of depression sliced at Knox’s mindscape. Contrary to popular belief, Knox’s elongated 7 years of pure isolation were self-implemented, for he required an escape from the mammonism of mankind. 7 years has been a long time to think, 7 years has truly refurbished the foundations of Knox’s soul, yet a surreptitious sinister persona still lays solemnly in a corner of his mind, awaiting the escape from Helheim, and the reentry of domination…
Nevertheless, despite the incongruous negativity eroding from the cynical sectors of his encephalon, Knox still remains sane in his self-proclaimed state of solidarity. Knox’s palm grandfather clocking struck midnight with the obstreperous chiming sound forever lacerating his mind. As the previously mentioned sanity-depriving device chimed, Knox arose from his sturdy chair of, once again palm, for the materials upon his islet were drastically limited, causing the dispiriting state Knox currently resides upon.
Notwithstanding his human isolation, the animals of the earth remained his only company, whether they were the trout in his tummy or the birds in his belly. Knox lived a rather humble life of segregation, with only the ambit of his abilities being that of cooking a full course meal, as his 7 year diet was restricted solely to trout and seagulls. On occasion, a plane or helicopter may loom overhead, though they would always respect the seclusion, and if not then they would learn to, one way or another.
In spite of the majority of living creatures eventually finding their ways towards the ever-malnourished location of Knox’s breadbasket, one creature truly stood out to Knox, a creature that most humans regarded as vermin, a mere auburn fox, who went by the ironic name of Cinnamon. Cinnamon found his way into Knox’s life on the first night of his stay, providing Knox with unsettling warmth. Funnily enough, Cinnamon immediately treated Knox with upmost respect despite his evident carnivorous nature towards anything that so much as exhaled. This was the action that kept Cinnamon alive, for Knox too respected Cinnamon, and thus the septennial of friendship began.
As a new day peaked upon the horizon, a new idea sparked within Knox’s brain. Such an idea may be considered injudicious to most, however Knox thought otherwise, his mentality evidently in shambles after a 7-year isolation period. Knox was ready to leave Helheim. His preparations for escapade began with the manufacturing of a small raft, for his entry to Helheim was not coming back. Such an entry being that of his only friend taking him over in a small rowing boat, only to double-cross Knox and admit to never returning. His small raft was unsurprisingly constructed from a combination of palm planks as well as paddles of a material that does not require explanation. Eventually, after days of fabrication, the S.S.Palm was ready for voyage, and Knox was ready for retribution.
Coincidently, the unfortunate choice of location for the Isle of Helheim was that of just east of the infamous Bermuda Triangle, henceforth a voyage set up for failure by fate and reality commenced. Initially, all seemed calm and right in the world; Cinnamon lay rest upon a measly bed of straw and seagull feathers. On the contrary, Knox was putting all of his bodyweight into paddling in order to attempt to build his upper body strength as a side perk of salvation. This false sense of serenity was what caused the downfall of the famed S.S.Palm.
Upon the entry of the notorious triangle, a sharp gust of wind slammed upon Knox’s chest, almost repelling his frail body into the desert of aqua. As the world was seemingly against Knox, he realised the dire need for his willpower to remain valiant. Evidently the ever-lasting theories about the concept of the triangle were not fictitious, for mere minutes into the region, a horde of sharks could be seen looming underneath the raft, insisting the ongoing sense of fear and anxiety. An ever-iconic chomp sounded out from the south side of the raft, i.e. around a meter from where Knox stood, forever holding his aura of integrity. The not-so-trustworthy palm began to decay as bite after bite; the regional capacity of the raft began to dissipate, until Cinnamon arose to Knox’s aid…
Within a matter of mere milliseconds, an autumnal blur belted across Knox’s field of vision, as Cinnamon’s final jump was taken. Knox watched in pure horror as his only true friend leapt into the cerulean abomination of an ocean, only to become a mangled corpse as the sharks began to divert their attention to the titian creature struggling for breath as the ocean found its way into his lungs. As his only friend perished before his very eyes, Knox persuaded his peregrination as a dreary tear crawled down his cheek.
After hours upon hours of paddling, an incongruous landmass arose upon the horizon; salvation was at hand in the form of a substantial chunk of dirt. As the land was increasingly closer, now residing at approximately 30 meters away, Knox truly began to question the realism of his return, would society accept him back? Was his odyssey just a haywire excuse for isolation? Such questions were the untimely result of a septennial of desperation resulting in the brink of insanity for Knox’s mentality.
Unfortunately, it was evident that society had no willingness for the reacceptance of Knox’s presence for the very second that his raft imbedded with the shoreline, a gunshot rang out, splicing Knox’s index finger clean off of his left hand. As Knox’s two remaining emotions consisted of the conversion between conscious states, and the unholy sense of betrayal, he reassembled his integrity, and manufactured his ingenuity as he bolted in the opposite direction from where the gunshot originated. Unbeknownst to Knox, his life would have been far better if he had simply remained in Helheim, however he had learnt not to dwell on the past, but to reinforce the future.
As Knox sauntered northbound, towards the everlasting scent of salvation, he reminisced about his fallen comrade, Cinnamon and the sacrifice that would forever haunt his mind for all eternity through the effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Nevertheless, Knox reminded himself of his conquest and continued his pilgrimage towards a seemingly abandoned village of mire and misbegotten oaken planks. As his encumbered body met the village, adrenaline arose in Knox’s veins as he acknowledged the ambrosial scent that had left his memory many moons ago, a wholesome scent that truly would replenish his ambition and fortify his vigour. Food, actual food lay somewhere within the village, and in a short minute would remain in Knox’s abdomen.
In a hazy glance, Knox’s visage scanned the village from head to toe, attempting to find delectable odour of salvation. Just shy of his field of view, lay a forsaken loaf of bread, awaiting the consumption from Knox and only Knox, however just as Knox’s eyes fell upon the maroon masterpiece, it was snatched away by the greedy hands of fate. Fate played a horrible game of cat and mouse with Knox’s life, constantly taunting his mentality and plaguing any and every chance of his existence, henceforth upon the failure of the capture of food, a sharp pain arose from a familiar wound upon his hand. The wound? Knox had completely forgotten about the wound, which was exceptionally surprising since the blood loss should have killed him a long time ago. And then he arose.
Knox suddenly arose from an apparent elongated slumber only to find his body in a lagoon of carmine, his final ounce of life force draining before his very eyes. His perception of normality was evidently inverted for upon the shock of being stabbed with a bullet, he fell into a trance, imagining a life beyond the concepts and confines of his life, only to be mislead and mistreated as he fell to the hands of a chunk of lead intertwining with his index finger.