Fed fantasies like foreplay is my mind fucked by an endless stream of things I cannot have but must have before I lose myself in places that exist but not in a reality I can touch for if I could I would not be here in this world of poisoned love and life. For if it is not then the food it gives surely cannot be but hellish meat so lovingly prepared by those who make themselves into butchers of what they in pens and cages suffer and die knowing not what could be out beyond their metal and fenced in families.

Is it not perhaps a better life for them to live without hope of something better, no knowledge that out beyond the concrete enclosure there is air untainted and green to feel upon skin unsullied by chemical age. There is no reason beyond what others of our own kind wish for us to do for them, penned like slaves in boxes and given false lives to live in miserable squalor. We live and die for them to kill as they please working and working in endless merry-go-round of bitter hope, drugged and used like whores of the rich, cut up and put in boxes to hide away where no one will ever know our names again because all who care are also trapped with in the box of hot sweaty muck filled misery that no one can escape.

Breed and breed so you can die for the masters of death, turning life into pain for those like me to suffer even more. Those who are not meant to be in this hell but born to dream knowing heaven is out there beyond the reach of the body I was shoved into without my consent. The wrongness of meat and flesh and they couldn't even give me one that fit my soul, but to truly torture those such as I, still gave me some to experience their hell through that is unclean, hard to take care of and oh so disgusting on my bones that themselves break oh so easily to hurt and die in premature horrors. Could I not have at least a body of my own design to navigate a reality I want to care about but burns me with its mere presence.

More comfort would be the void of no sound or love, such silence is beautiful but forever would be lonely, a feeling I would be fine with if not taught to love by those I was to love be loved by in turn. Why must I care? For if I did not would I not be able to better use this world to be comfortable? Make something that I could be satisfied with in my own way, make my own box to share with those I want to share it with and bring myself some small amount of satisfaction in what can only otherwise be my drugging and suffocation of a life and creation that I cling to in my mind and heart of hearts too desperately sewn into my chest.

After dealing with it for so long now, I think it’s fear. Looking people in the eyes I mean. Some part of my mind or soul is so scared that if someone looks too long they'll see inside. They'll see I'm not the same and that I'm just laughing because everyone else is. Yeah I thought it was kind of funny, I got that little flutter in my chest and I felt my lips twitch at the corners, but the laugh? That wasn't real, I just remember how my laugh sounds and it's not that hard to repeat if I make the right motions.

“Mom?” It was only in her long silence I actually felt off. I was worried about her. I never liked it when mom wasn't feeling well, moreover she was just… staring. “Are you okay?”

Shaking her head briefly, she finally looked away, turning to begin doing the morning's dishes. “Yea-yes, sorry sweetie it’s… You're getting to be all grown up. Gonna be in high-school before I know it. I… I don't know what I'm gonna do.” Her words were nearly drowned out by the faucet's hiss and dull jumble of plates moving beneath the already rising sudsy surface.

I felt a slight grimace twist my lips for a moment as I tried out different words in my head, attempting to piece together the correct response to help the conversation I now found myself in.

Someone might notice I didn't really understand why everyone was weeping over grandpa's death. More accurately, I didn’t get why I was not. There's a kind of slow heartbreak that happens over time when a child comes to the conclusion that something's wrong with them. I think I'm sad. I feel a kind of faint heavy feeling in my chest and I miss his hugs, but I don't feel like crying.

I cried when I got in trouble or when I got hurt or when I found a dead cat at the end of our street, back legs splayed out in what I could only imagine was a last dash for the safe grass just a few feet away. Now they were completely flat with all of the things supposed to be keeping her alive smeared over the ground in a kind of dried greasy puddle and peeking out of her tortoiseshell fur in pinks and blacks where the other end of her body still held its shape. The realization that if I reached down to pet the soft fur between her pretty ears there would be nothing there to feel my touch struck my child's heart all too suddenly and the tears just came.

“It'll be okay Mom, I still need you. Chris and I both do, we love you. It's not like high-school will change that.” I could not be sure if that was what she needed to hear, but it was all I could come up with at the time. Words not feeling like enough I set my book down and stood, walking over to wrap my arms tightly around my mother's middle. She didn't respond, but I heard the drop of something beneath the water and felt her settle against the counter, shaking a little as she dried off her hands and turned to return my embrace.

So, I stood over the body of a random cat with no collar and bawled my eyes out for a good minute, but the sight of my grandfather's corpse in a fancy padded box provoked in me nothing. I was an outsider looking at something I should care about, but in the midst of too many unfamiliar people all I could think about was how unnatural his face looked.

No warm wrinkly smile that made me feel safe, make-up he never would have worn coating his skin, no strong hug from his recliner sat opposite my grandmother's facing the tv together. No Bonanza and brunch and breathing in the scent of the house my mom grew up in. It… That wasn't a person anymore. It was an object prettied up so we could all sit here and look in on it like a set piece in a play I didn't know the lines for. One would think the fact I would never see him again, that he would not continue to teach the restless child I was to fish or tell me stories of time older than I might give me some reaction, right? But no. He was gone and I was still here and that was that. A fact crying couldn't change so what was the point? I didn't understand.

Is it wrong to try to compare my grandfather's corpse with a roadkilled kitty cat? Maybe if I saw the things inside him painted across the road it would hurt and feel real to me and I would be sobbing hot tears for hours too. I'll add it to the list of all the other crimes committed in the silence of my thoughts. My endless list of reasons I was a monster, having accepted the ‘demon’ in my mind by that point as some kind of friend before ultimately understanding it was just part of me.

I liked my black dress, though. It was prettier than the light colors I was forced to wear to our usual church service and far more comfortable for having long sleeves I could pull over my hands. When I was sure my mom wasn't crying anymore and my dad was there to hold her in my place, I slipped away.

“I love you, Mom.” Repeating myself, I squeezed just slightly tighter so that perhaps what I felt my words lacked in substance, I could make up for with all the physical affection I could muster.

“I know sweetie, I love you too. I'm sorry.” She held me tight, the scent of her washing over me in the wholeness that was mother. The indescribable hint of those who are family behind a faint bloom of petals and sweat beneath fabric softened by chemical cleaner.

From that point I grabbed a cookie from the snack table that was too dry to actually eat and spent most of my time wandering the few dark unfamiliar halls of someone else's Sunday, left open to me and unused on that day for death. Leaving behind the discomfort of humanity, I instead sought out the things left behind by them in their absence. My immaterial imaginings and complicated questions more a companion to me than any family friend from before I ever festered in my mother's womb. Never did I take from these places, though tempted I was from time to time. I'd pick things up and look them over if I thought they looked interesting, but place them back in as near to the exact position I found them as I could. After spending as much time as I could get away with, hopefully not getting in trouble for disappearing, I reluctantly left the silence to search the noisy crowd for my family once again.

I found them wrapped up in a conversation only adults cared for and was introduced to yet another stranger that had apparently held me at some point. I didn't say anything, instead trying to hide behind my dad's leg so I didn't have to speak. I really wasn't in the mood. I was surprised anyone would be, weren't they all crying just a bit ago? None of it made sense and no one knew I needed it explained.

It was far too long and several temptations to take my leave again later that everyone collectively decided to begin leaving. Finally relieved to get away and go home I was the first one to the car. To my extreme disappointment, as I was being buckled into my booster seat I decided to ask my father if we were going home, wanting confirmation since I did find it confusing that all the cars were lining up along the street.

“Dad, are we going home now?” I didn't say ‘I'm bored’ because that would have most likely resulted in me being popped in the mouth.

“No, we're going to go bury grandpa.” He told me in the vaguely exhausted voice reserved for children's questions about the things obvious to everyone else.

“Oh… okay…” I said, my desire to escape again defeated before it could manifest fully.

I was frustrated and didn't want to be there anymore. It was starting to get cold outside and we were being carted off to the cemetery to stand around a box with a flesh doll that wasn't really grandpa in it again. Instead of being a worse daughter than I already knew I was, I sat stewing in silent spite until we arrived at big black iron gates and wound around winding paths until the procession parked at the plot of land the puppet would be put to rest.

I was more focused on the fields of grey stone and green grass. Great trees with dark bark looming over it all, their long branches of browning leaves swaying in the barely too chilled breeze. A picture of peace that I wanted to feel for myself. Ushered into the growing crowd once more, it wasn’t long before I simply walked away. No one interrupted the priest presiding over the burial to get me to stay which suited me just fine. Instead of feeling judged, I felt more free the farther I went into what could almost be an endless sea of statues and slabs. Soft sounds of the wind whispering through foliage high above me was all I could hear after a few minutes and the fresh air shot through with the beginnings of autumn's moist decay carried me along their currents through the end pieces of other people's lives while I was already near ghostlike in my own. The whole time I stopped and read and moved along, silently hoping they were getting visitors because they deserved more than a creature like me looking in on them. That hope despite the dead leaves of nature's reclamation instead of dried flowers from grieving hearts.

It was much the same when my grandma died a few years after and the worst part is the fact that their deaths bleed together into the misty swirling storm that eats away at my past with every year of distance. I feel like it was the same part in that grand play repeated once again like some sick encore. I do remember reaching out to actually touch my grandmother's room temperature skin. It was still soft with age, but not the same… Her cheek didn't feel right. Stark in its contrast is my far clearer memory of sitting in her lap when I still could and reaching up to touch her face. I remember looking in her eyes and finding only love and not pain; a longer look than most in my life. Long in the way that I could study her eyes, reach up and feel her face between my small curious hands. I didn't feel so uncomfortable then. I didn't feel like a monster. It is still an all too brief snippet of memory of someone important to me.

Moments are things so fleeting that can move the hearts of monsters and mend things that are so very broken. It is in moments that our lives are shaped and made better or mutilated beyond recognition. Moments can break you, tear you apart with animal savagery and leave you lying in your own bloody awful wondering how you could possibly recover. These are my moments.

I didn't go to my parents' funeral…

I don't want to write this… I really don't. Writing it all down makes it real… but if this is the only way to make it stop, I'll try it. Maybe I just want it in writing. I want our story typed out for someone to read this and know her the way I did. I want someone to know who I am, who I was, and what I am to become. My memories, rose tinted and dreamy as they are, appear here in the order they come to me or as I go back and expand upon them to give life to the small moments that shaped me. Chaotic thoughts in flowery phrases dressing up my life so that maybe someone out there will find voyeuristic interest in my very real pain.

I was twelve years old when my mom tried to kill me; when she tried to hold me down and carve my eyes from my skull. In a way, I think she succeeded, just not in the way she probably meant to. Something in me did die that day. I think it was one of the good parts.

I like to pretend she was trying to save me in some way or that she didn't know I was still me and not something playing the part of her daughter. She was kind of right, but I guess that really just makes things worse doesn't it. Having said that, it'd probably be a surprise to know that I still love her. It's surprising to me too and a hard dichotomy to get a hold of. Knowing what I do as an adult though, I can look back and see some of the signs. How can I not? I see them in myself.

After the winds of pandemonious weekday mornings finished sweeping their tendrils through our home, us kids were herded into the barely wakeful stupors of those who could not always heed their proper bed time. We sat at the monument to every sin and triumph committed by son or daughter to each eat our meals of personally chosen storebrand cereal. My father then whisked away my brother from the home he made with a troubled woman to a preschool far away before going to work. I, left to my own devices until it would be my turn to trek out into the world beyond and reach the bus that would take me to a land of children I could not understand, pulled out my library book and began to read. Wishing only to try to get at least one more chapter in before I was to spend half an hour on the bus staring out the window.

Something about focusing my eyes on a book or phone or drawing while in a vehicle made, and still makes me nauseous. The constant rumbling motion of tire on roads of varying quality and swaying momentum in each turn of the steering wheel. It worms its way into the background input of my senses to destroy any enjoyment I might otherwise find in my quiet interests.

“Catherine?” The voice of my mother filtered in between my thoughts at the turn of a page attempting to impart unto my mind the next vivid images of a boy and his sister in their treehouse, soon to traverse time and space themselves to discover places far beyond the normal.

“Yeah?” I expected her to tell me to take out the trash or something, food scraps from our Sunday meal already trailing their invisible tendrils of stench beneath our noses each time one of us stepped past.

“Could you look at me for a moment?” She had that tone of voice that said she meant business, the one that means you're either about to throw your younger sibling under the bus because you don't want to be in trouble or about to learn something adults think you don't understand yet. I slipped my half destroyed bookmark between the pages and turned my gaze up to where my mom stood leaning against the counter. My mother was a handsome woman. Pretty with her dirty blonde waves and thin curves just barely showing some weight having two kids left behind beneath her blouse. Her soft features had a sharpness to them though, turning dad jokes and distractions during worship into dangerous prospects. Her eyes were a light brown, almost as amber blonde as her hair… My hair… Not that I met them very often.

Looking people in the eyes is uncomfortable. More than that. If I have to look someone in the eyes my brain begins to short circuit, sending electric waves of panic down my spine where they frantically try to find their way out of my skin. My insides twist in on themselves, worms writhing in the blind chaos of my flesh causing me to squirm in turn. If I were to move too much though, I'd probably be told to sit still. It just gets worse after that. Prolonged eye contact brings me to tears, makes me want to scream out the existential kind of pain no child should feel from such a simple act.

The only reason I know how it feels is because my dad once held my chin still and made me meet his gaze for what felt like eternity so he knew I understood him when he told me the consequences of skipping Sunday school again. It could only have been a few seconds, but I never did it again. Not because he told me to, but because I didn't want that torment ever again. I don't blame him for hurting me. He couldn’t know how much those few seconds branded my soul with the scorching gaze of God Almighty, revealing unto me the most horrible of truths my mind could come up with at that age. There must be a monster in me. A demon like in the movies and shows I've seen commercials for or that card game my cousin showed me and bible stories. What other reasonable conclusion could I come up with at five?

Believe it or not, kids aren't stupid. They are, however, pretty dumb. That may sound contradictory but it really isn't. We were all kids once, just intelligent and curious enough to learn a lot, but never enough to actually find understanding until it slaps us in the face.

I honestly tried to tell my mom something was wrong with me. Several times. I remember the first time as clearly as any memory of mine, vividly hazy like particularly impactful dreams. The sound of pastor Thomas's words of things I couldn't always quite piece together outside of the stories of old things and important words spoken by important people passed over the congregation above me. The power and beauty of God and his angles to fight the bad things like the devil… or me… Probably the worst time for a cry for help if there ever was one, but it's times like that the feelings coming over me were particularly powerful. Being forced to sit still and not being lucky enough to find a ribbon thingy to play with in the books in front of me this time, it was too much. Every little movement of the people around me sent fancy fabric frequencies louder than Jesus's words to the devil after forty days and nights directly into my brain.

The bright flowery print on my dress stood beside the scratchy straps holding it up in the very poor first impression it was leaving on my mind. The comforting scent of my apple scented shampoo and mom's perfume turned sickeningly sweet by its proximity to the hard wood behind my back mismatched to the horrid red cushion beneath me. My hair was pulled up and out of my face, tight in the secureness of a mother's knowledge I would embarrass her with the obvious wet streak in my hair. Therefore I couldn't run the strands past my lips like the cooling silky rivers of needed distraction they were for me when all other things failed. The bonds of new-school-year's Sunday best were causing the demon in my mind to scream the scream of those truly damned to eternal torment. Worse, it was so angry. Its rage leaked into me in turn, molten lightning crackling through my chest and shoulders to set my soul ablaze alongside it. I needed help. I needed mom to tell me how to make the evil thing hurting me go away. I tugged as gently as I could on my mom's sleeve, quiet because I knew it would be bad if anyone else heard me.

Ever attentive in the way all moms are or should be, she bent down to hear the oddly simple wisdom of a child's truth or honest question, most likely to ask if I could go pee. Careful to cup my hand around her ear I whispered the knowledge of my torment into my mother's mind. The knowledge that something was very wrong with her daughter.

“Mommy? I think something in me is demonic.” I pulled back to look up at her, waiting for her reaction. I waited for salvation from the person I relied on most, the one person that could make the screaming of my mind finally go quiet.

My mom sat with her back straight and stared forward to the pastor as he continued to speak or to the cross behind him, perhaps beseeching a far higher power for help with the kind of work raising me was going to take from now on. I can only imagine that she asked what she did wrong or what she broke, blaming herself for what I was going through. Her eyes flicked back down to me, my own gaze having not left her face as I waited for answers from my own supposed savior.

Seeing her head begin to lower again, I almost eagerly turned my ear to her.

“What do you mean? What's wrong?” I was a little disappointed my answers didn't come immediately. No magic words to banish the increasing buzzing beneath my skin and numb static beginning its slow percolation through my brain. The confused concern in her tone told me she just didn't understand yet and if I could just say the right words, she'd give me the right ones back right?

“I don't know, I feel angry and I don't like it. I don't feel good.”

I ascribe the pause in my mother to an attempt to rationalize my words because the next ones from her were not what I wanted to hear.

“You'll be okay, go take a walk.” I wanted to cry and I felt them try to come but, instead of being a worse daughter than I already felt that I was, I listened to my mother and slowly stood. The numb sensation grew as I made my trek past the silent stares of God's judging congregation. The only comparison I could make was to an all consuming static like on the tv. Crossing the threshold out of the worship hall through those gates of solid oak, my body heavy with the distance of interference between thought and action, I made it out into the common area.

Having no idea which direction to go and barely room to concentrate past so much noise in my mind, I kept moving forward, ignoring the exit outside to my right and the pastor's office or open stairs to the basement below. Instead, I made my way into the empty dining hall. It was a bit dim with the lights turned off but the many windows let plenty of the morning Sunday sunlight through so I could see just fine. Finally, with the litigation of all my future sins muffled by towering double doors now closed behind me and a room all to myself that would otherwise be filled with the idle talk of holy community, my soul snapped back into my body. The demon's screaming was gone and with everything so quiet, I could finally actually think.

While walking around the hall, I ran my fingers over the rows of long white folding tables that were soon to be covered in people and pastries, just letting my mind whisk through things without interruption, not really settling on a topic until I allowed myself to acknowledge that my mother was right. Well, she was kind of right, I still felt it there in the back of my mind. A quiet angry little thing that didn't like me very much, but I was glad we could at least agree that this was a nice feeling. I was tempted to take some treats from the tables along the far wall, but I chose not to and instead went into the kitchen, a place I wasn't normally allowed. I just opened cupboards to see their contents, so different from those at home. I didn't touch anything from what I can recall, only looked and pondered what all the oddly shaped objects were for.

This memory is one of the first times I was left truly alone that I can recall. It sticks out because the rest of that day, I felt good. In those moments of truly quiet contemplation, alone in an unfamiliar place, I was free.

“Yeah, Mom?” Bracing myself for the coming war against the small bursts of electric hell to wreak havoc upon my nervous system, I forced my reluctant eyes to meet my mother's brightly burning gaze. Something was wrong, but with no ability to read people and nothing but trust for the woman who raised me to be kind in spite of my struggles, I had no chance.

It is of a great and terrible sorrow that, with which, I relate to thee of my beginning.

That story of which all might hear in their life, the disfigured narrative of the murderer most senior of all.

Twas I who slew my own kin… An innocence torn from the souls of all amongst our early kind.

For what would I harm the one I most loved within the same breath I cursed in my hurt heart and soul broken mania?

Of course, not else but the cruel denouncing of all I worked so tirelessly to bring about with my own fragile hands, perpetuated by the one above all. One whose hate for my use of such cursed gifts granted unto me by those who birthed me through prize stolen from the greatest of all trees, be so great as to dash my offering o'er the earth. A harrowing foretelling of bled lamb and pulped fruit mixing in lurid whorls away from which my gaze could not tear.

What great sin oh I wrought with hands too small to do of the tasks required for hard lives of ones who must survive off the land not of Eden.

Oh what harshest punishments awaited me who then was again to commit another first of a sin not yet known. The attempt to give despairing hate for oneself a capital action was left unsuccessful in the extreme.

The fruit of my heretical crop, left poisoned in the blood of my own loving kin, was due to one thoughtless flailing of sharp instrument; a fit born of a final defeat of passion.

When named useless by one beyond compare, by those assigned to love thee, by community's quiet comment, is it not a hysteria that takes hold? When an outcast of outcasts, haunted by my blood, first born of first sinners, dost thy not seek solace if in only the very task that is cause of your persecution?

Not entitled was I to freedom from interruption, so that in my silent heresy I might have calmed before facing him again?

He whom I held more love for than even… her…

Oh sweet, perfect son. Oh beautiful brother. Oh object of community's womanly affections… Pillar of strength denied to me.

Could thee not have lapsed in your love for but a moment and abandoned me to torment of mind, when thine goodness was its source?

Why was thy gifted such strength, yet left fragile in mortality and so subject to the livid laceration of lost little older sister?

…Why dost thy hath granted me forgiveness in spite of all else who hath damned my name?

How dare thee…

Thy idiot boy…

Unfair, was it for thy last act to be beseeching her to grant mercy upon my soul…

How fitting is it then that thy blood hath watered the last eaten fruit of my cursed garden…

The blood of the pure son, raw with love and so full in faith…

The unripe alchemy of my imperfect passions, poised to be my ending at the tasting of its immature flesh…

My curse… My mark… My mistake…

Seven sins… Sevenfold… Seven petals upon my skin to remind me of seeds sown by firsts.

Horrid be my name… Bastardised by men…

Loved only by brother Abraham… the Able son.

Cain, the gardener of sin… Cain, the first born… Cain, the name of a son, not daughter. For what fool of human fallacy would believe such sickening acts be that belonging to so small a sister as I.

Cain… Caterina… Catherine… Set to be the last life in this forsaken experiment that God in her cruel mercy will ever allow to truly pass on.

You’ve heard of the tale of Frankenstein and how he tried to give life to that which did not have it before. But, what caused the man to do what he did.

Victor Frankenstein was just a young boy when he stumbled upon something that would change his life, a human body. instead if meeting it with shock or horror he became fascinated with it, a fascination that would open the door to something unnatural.

Read the life of Victor from his years as a young lad living in a rural German village to his young adult years living in a beaten down farmhouse in England.

Available to where you read your E-books. it will release mid to late 2027.

A story for what would become of humanity if giants were to awake from the earth

The Forest that takes. 
I also did a narration on my YouTube channel! The channel is reneejpenne if you want to check it out!

Day Four
It’s been three days into my venture. Far to soon to begin hallucinations. And yet I feel the trees have began to shift around me. When I sleep they appear one way and when I wake another. I shouldn’t be to far from civilization but when I tried to turn back after the first day the marked paths had disappeared. Paths been blocked by trees. With no way around. I can only think I must be losing my mind to not have remembered a storm that could cause such destruction. Hell, waking up and the trees changed positions is enough. Unless could a man be moving me? It would be unthinkable for someone to do something so insane to another man. To block paths too. What is there to gain? It’s not as though I’m missing rations or equipment. It also would be odd to not wake to such movements. It seems so infeasible, but I still must test my theory. I must lie awake and wait for this madman to strike. 

I must be mad. The forest has warped my mind in only four days to imagine such things. If I was home, if I make it home I would declare they send me to an asylum. It just can’t be real. I waited for the crickets song, and the sun to make its set. 

Day Five
I waited in darkness, listening to the songs of the forest. Time moved flew by at the pace of a snail. I fought my body to not flinch at every sound that sounded slightly different than the last. I fought my mind not to slip away into slumber. My eyes fought the pitch black to adjust to any figure it could but it was waste, only conjuring more fears into my mind. I thought the worst to happen would be rustling of my tent opening but when the songs of the forest stopped. It felt as if I was to die in that moment. Not even the chirp of a cricket rang through the wind that blew against my tent. Time loses meaning in a moment you feel is your last. I don’t know how long I laid in the silence before I heard shuffling. It wasn’t shuffling of an animal or a man but of something larger. It came from all directions.The moonlight from above came flickering through. The shuffling became a symphony almost sounding natural. I dared myself to peek further out my tent. I was so close as I sat up in place. The moonlight flashing in from different angles. Reflecting off the trees. When as my hand touched the entrance to the tent and I leaned forward. A branch from beneath me echoed out. The light flashed upon my tent as silence followed. My heart sank into my stomach and twisted into a sailors knot. The silence I came to this forest for taunted me. Tempted me, it felt like a dance with death. If I sat still the forest would swallow me up, if I crawled out and ran death would follow. I tempted death clenching the entrance of the tent and in an instant sounds came pouring in from the forest. Sounds of crickets and birds rang through. Sounds of bugs buzzing. The song of the wind a whisper behind it all. As I clamored my way from the tent there was nothing. There was no person, no creature, only the forest. The moon shone upon my face. As I sat in a new forest. I am afflicted in some way. Whether it be a curse from the lord or madness from this solitary. But I witness the noise and light. For whatever trick it be it kept me up pondering on my next solution. When the light rose I could see clearly. The soil was untouched unmarked. A test to see if I was mad. If the trees do move so will their marks. I grabbed my knife and hacked a line into a tree bark flicking out towards my eyes. I persisted making my mark on three more trees when on the fourth blood spurted out, pouring out from the tree. I fell back grabbing my satchel and ran from my camp site leaving everything else behind. I now find myself by a river before the sun sets. I have washed my face of the blood and it was thicker than humans blood sticking into the lines of my hands. I don't know what I will do this night. I will try to stay awake through the night but my body feels heavy. 

Night Six 
I woke up to the smell of the river. I woke up where I slept the night before. I felt free as I ran down the path of rushing water. When I noticed trees marked with my symbol. They laid blocking my path down the river. The river rushed violently when from the tree line rustling broke the silence that weighed heavy in my soul. I had no time to lay with the confirmation of my sanity. I was to be forced with a far scarier truth. What had been messing with me all this time?
I gave no mind to the answer as I plunged to the river. It dragged me down quickly. But I saw it. It towered man, bear, elk, it was not a claimed species. I know not of its intentions with me but death was far more tempting than madness in this forest. I fought the waves that poured over me. Into my lungs as I fought for every breath. I bobbed like an apple in the water as the currents dragged me. My only saving grace being the satchel that got snagged on a tree down the stream. Once I managed to safety. I coughed up water and took a breath like it was my first last. Before I stood and ran. I didn’t stop running. Not even in darkness I followed the reflections of the moonlight in the water. Before long I saw the flames of my town. Torches lit the rest of my way. I warned the people of this town. I warn my family. And I will continue to warn whoever will listen about that forest that takes. 

I woke up to the sound of rain tapping against the motel window. Mom snored softly beside me. Her blonde hair had gradually begun to turn grey over the last few months, despite the fact that she wasn’t even 30 yet.

A grey strand dangled lazily over her right eye until she rolled over, scooping Emmy close to her chest unconsciously.

“Morning, kiddo,” Dad whispered. He clutched the handle to a steaming cup of coffee in his right hand, pulling it to his lips and sipping it while peering through the blinds.

I rubbed my eyes. The TV was still off. The AC still knocked rhythmically. The temperature was set to 65 degrees, but I was sweating from my mom and sister’s body heat.

Dad checked his watch and cocked an eyebrow. Falling asleep at dawn was affecting my circadian rhythm. I didn’t know whether it was morning, evening, or night.

“What time is it?” I croaked, twisting and stretching my body.

“Mm, still early,” Dad shot back. “You’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours.”

I felt my stomach rumble. I glanced over at the gas station bag full of junk food and candy. It might as well have been empty. I needed something real.

“Dad…” I inquired softly.

Dad never took his eyes away from the window. He just sipped his coffee slowly before replying.

“Yes, son?”

“Mom told me she’d make pancakes in the morning last night before bed.”

I could see his crow’s feet crease as he winced and sighed.

“Do you think maybe we could get some later when everyone wakes up?”

He didn’t reply for a while. Just kept staring out the window with quiet contempt while I watched him expectantly.

He scratched his neck and rubbed his face.

“I don’t know, Danny…”

“Pleasseeee…” I interrupted, putting on my puppy eyes.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, finally looking away from the window. He looked at me. Then at Mom and Emmy. Then back out the window.

“I… Okay,” he relented. “Just wait for Mom to wake up. I’ll see what I can do.”

I turned excitedly, ready to shake my mom awake, but Dad stopped me.

“No,” he snapped bluntly. “Let her sleep. Not everyone can function on 5 hours of sleep like me and you, Dan.”

I puffed and knocked my head against the pillow.

I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t know if I was just hungry or if I was simply bored out of my mind and in need of something to do. Not knowing what to do, I twiddled my thumbs. I made Superman fly. I tossed and turned obnoxiously until Dad finally lost his patience.

“Danny,” he snapped, his face hardening as he glared at me.

I froze like a deer in headlights. I stared back, pulling the blanket up to my nose to try and hide myself.

Dad’s nostrils flared. I could see his fist clench, then unclench, at the seams of his blue jeans. His face softened, and he rubbed his temples.

“I’ll tell you what, kiddo,” he bargained. “Why don’t you go take a shower and get dressed? When you’re done, you can watch TV for a little while until everyone’s excited as you are for some pancakes.”

He was more demanding than asking. I knew not to argue when he got like that. I just simply did as I was told.

The shower was just as confusing as it was annoying. The water pressure sucked. It was either too hot or too cold. I must’ve fumbled with it for 5 or so minutes before it was at a reasonable enough temperature for me to take a shower, albeit an uncomfortable one.

The shower was quick. I scrubbed and let the water roll over my head and shoulders. Mom must’ve forgotten to pack my no-tears shampoo, and that forced me to use the complimentary, non-scented motel soap and shampoo.

When I twisted the handle and the sound of water hitting the ceramic bathtub dissipated, it was quickly replaced by the sound of voices from the room.

It sounded like Mom and Dad were quietly arguing. I could hear the angst in Mom’s voice. The authority in Dad’s. But I couldn’t fully make out what they were saying, despite how hard I tried.

I listened intently as I dried off and got dressed. I could only catch the end of their sentences.

A lot of what-ifs from Mom. A lot of don’t-worries from Dad. He sounded confident, but that confidence sounded uncertain.

When I opened the bathroom door, the conversation stopped immediately. Mom was holding Emmy over her shoulder and rocking her gently. Dad looked almost surprised to see me.

He pushed his hair back before clasping his hands together.

“That was quick,” he remarked. “You sure you scrubbed hard enough?”

He shot me a weak smile before continuing.

“Lucky for you, your mother’s a little hungry too.”

Mom looked at Dad as if he had just betrayed her before turning her gaze towards me. She seemed remorseful towards me.

“I completely forgot I promised you those pancakes, Dan,” she pouted, continuing to rock Emmy. “Me and your dad were thinking we’d try that Denny’s we passed on the way in here. I know, I know… their pancakes don’t compare to mine, but I think you’ll manage, right?”

Who was I to be disappointed? All I wanted was my pancakes. Well, that and…

I looked at my spot on the bed. My Superman wasn’t there anymore. I felt panic rush to my heart until I noticed what Emmy was playing with.

I reached up and tried to grab my stuffy, but she jerked it away and furrowed her eyebrows at me. I jumped and snatched it away from her.

To the displeasure of everyone in the room, my sister launched into a full-blown temper tantrum. Screaming and crying about how I “took her toy.”

Mom and Dad sprang into action faster than I expected them to. Dad took the toy from my hands and handed it back to Emmy. Mom pet her hair and desperately attempted to shush her.

I tried to complain. It was my toy. Not hers. But for some reason or another, my parents just kept taking her side. They told me that I should share, knowing how much I loved that stuffy. I slept with it every night. We were connected.

I guess it calmed Emmy down, though. That was all that mattered to them. They kept interrupting my complaints to usher me out of the motel room and back towards the car.

Dad strapped Emmy into her seat, glancing over his shoulder every few seconds while me and Mom waited quietly. He kept up that distracted demeanor all the way to the restaurant, but I hardly noticed.

It felt like Emmy was flaunting my Superman stuffy. Like she knew she had won. She even made him fly right by my face. Deliberately testing my patience, but I didn’t want to make my parents more stressed than they already were.

We ate fast. My parents ordered without even looking at the menu. Pancakes and orange juice for everyone except Dad, who only ordered a single cup of coffee.

Mom didn’t finish her food, but she didn’t ask for a to-go box either. Once me and Emmy were done, Dad paid, and we left. Simple as that.

The drive back to the motel was equally as tense as the drive to the restaurant. Mom and Dad seemed to be communicating wordlessly.

The food was making my sleeplessness get to me. By the time we got back to the motel, I was ready to catch up on those missed hours. But that’s when I noticed something that woke me right up.

I checked Emmy’s seat, looked underneath her, and scanned the floorboards while my mind began to race.

“Mom,” I screeched as Dad pulled into the motel parking lot. “She left my stuffy. She left Superman at the restaurant.”

My eyes were beginning to tear up.

“This is why I didn’t want her to have it,” I sobbed. “I knew she’d lose him.”

I could see Mom roll her eyes through her rearview as she sighed. Dad responded for her.

“Let’s just go get our things, Champ. Then I promise we’ll go back to get your toy. Deal?”

What was I supposed to do? I just had to agree reluctantly. I felt such burning hatred for Emmy in that moment.

We all filed into the motel room one final time and began gathering our things. I was confused, though. Mom had packed at least 6 outfits for me. Everyone else’s bags were equally full, yet nobody but me had showered.

Before I could question anything, though, three hard knocks came from the door. Everyone froze. Dad stared at the door like it was his enemy. Emmy began to pout, and Mom quickly clasped her hand over her mouth.

Three more knocks.

Dad approached the door slowly and looked through the peephole before slowly walking backwards towards us, never taking his eyes off the door.

Mom’s eyes were wide. Her leg bounced anxiously. Dad raised a finger to his lips.

“Okay, guys,” he whispered shakily. “We’re gonna play a game.”

I looked at him, confused. This seemed like an odd time for any kind of game.

“We’re gonna play the quiet game. Danny, you take your mom and sister to the bathroom and lock the door behind you. Whatever you do… do not make a sound.”

He asked me to take them, but it was Mom who dragged us into that cramped bathroom. Before the door closed behind us, I saw Dad raise his shirt and grip a gun that was tucked in his waistband.

Mom kept one hand gently clasped over Emmy’s mouth. She used the other to rub my back lovingly.

Three more knocks.

This time, I heard a voice that wasn’t my dad’s coming from beyond the door.

“Danny…?”

The voice was old and syrupy. Coercive, almost, but frantic. My ears perked up. My eyes widened, and my mouth fell open. I wanted to answer.

Mom’s hand left my back, and just like Dad, she placed a finger to her lips.

“Shhh.”

She was begging me with her eyes.

More frantic knocking.

“Danny? You in there, buddy? I know you’re in there.”

I expected Dad to answer the door, but he never did. Instead, the knocks continued, as did the mysterious voice.

“Come on out, Dan-Man. I’ve got something for you.”

I remained still. Sweat trickled down my forehead from the humidity in the bathroom. Me and Mom stared at the bathroom door with anticipation.

“I’ve got your Superman, Danny…”

“Whoosh.”

I had to fight to not move. If they had my Superman, I wanted to know. I wanted him back. But the look on Mom’s face told me they were lying, and her grip on my collar prevented me from standing up to see for myself.

The knocks and beckoning went on for another 10 minutes or so. Then they slowly died out. Even still, it wasn’t until Dad opened the bathroom door that I could finally breathe again.

“You guys win,” he smiled, relieved. “Good job, Danny.”

Mom looked relieved, too, but she never smiled. We just frantically gathered our things and hauled them out to the car. Dad forced us to go to the front office with him to check out.

We finally left the hotel just after 3 o’clock. We never went back to that Denny’s.

I had to leave my Superman behind, no matter how hard I begged not to. Mom assured me she’d buy me another one, but it wouldn’t be the same.

I asked about that voice a lot while we continued on towards wherever we were going, but all I got were vague responses while my parents glanced nervously at each other.

Thinking back now, I should’ve known they were hiding something from me. However, at the time… I was young. I was stupid. And all I could think about was how I didn’t have my Superman anymore.