u/Mradachi2007

Part 1

Part 2

Martin started to sob uncontrollably. His breathing turned into heavy gasps.

“M-Martin, c-calm down,” I said, trying to keep my own emotions in check. I looked over to the commander, expecting to see him attempting to defuse the situation. To call Martin a sissy, or a bonehead. But the brave, stoic figure we’ve come to know had turned into a husk of his former self. He just stood there in silence, looking at Martin with glazed eyes.

“Commander, what do we do? Every time we attempt to head toward the beach, we end up back at this fucking clearing.” I waited for a response but was only met with a look of sadness and confusion.

“Answer me! You have to have a plan or some fucking idea for how to handle the situation we’re in!” Anger began to boil in me like a raging fire. The commander finally spoke.

“We wait here. There’s nothing else to do. Nothing.” The moment he spoke those words, Martin stopped his sobs and looked up at the commander with a look of venom in his eyes.

“What do you mean, 'Wait here'? Huh! You mean to tell us that waiting here with our thumbs up our asses is a good idea! Listen to yourself!” Martin stood back up on his feet, his knees noticeably covered in a dusty layer of dirt. He shook with rage and grief.

“Martin, we’ll figure something out. There has to be a way out of here, I’m sure of it!” I spoke to Martin with a sense of false hope. I had to lie even to myself that we could make it out of this hellhole.

“Well then, let's go. If you're sure, then move your ass back toward the tree-line with me!” Martin grabbed the collar of my uniform, gripping it and pulling on it with a slight tug. His breath smelled of rot.

“Martin!” my commander finally spoke in an authoritative tone. Martin let go of my uniform and balled his fist up.

“You will listen to me, soldier. You are to remain here!”

“Oh, and what, starve myself to death! For fuck's sake, do you even think about the words that come out of your mouth! Or are you too busy pretending to be this hardened, heroic man, who in reality is just as scared as a fucking kid!” Martin’s voice oozed with venom. He was right; the commander was breaking under the pressure. He was losing that touch that would make a soldier straighten up with the snap of his voice. Martin could see that, and knew orders were practically subjective now.

“Martin, calm down. Think this through. It's no better to go off into the forest just to circle back to here!”

“You know what, you two sit here like the stubborn fools you are and starve to death! I’ll find my own way out of this fucking place!” Before I could say anything, Martin grabbed his rifle and stomped over to the sea of vegetation.

Hours passed and there was no sign of Martin returning. It caused all the emotions from before to funnel into one. Fear. Fear was the only thing I felt. He should have been back by now. He should have circled back to the clearing by now.

“Commander? Do... do you think he found some way back toward the beach? He must have, right?” The commander looked at me, then tilted his head back down. I wanted to shout at him in anger again, but I felt the situation was already bad enough. No point making it any worse.

The tension still hung over us like a parasite. It ate away at anything positive I could think of, replacing it with dark thoughts. Thoughts of fear and delusion. Thoughts that would end up with me dead. I started to think Martin was right about Nixon. I think Nixon got off easy. He got the comfort of death and we—

No. No, I was thinking like a fool. We would get out of this even if it meant I had to crawl my way back. Even if it meant I had to see the sight of this clearing a hundred more times. I would get out of this hell we’ve been subjected to.

My thoughts came to a screeching halt when I heard a twig snap. The sound seemed to draw the commander's attention as well. The dark thoughts came back; my mind began to flood with dread and paranoia.

My guard lowered when I saw a familiar figure. It was Martin. Wait, something was off.

In the pale moonlight, he shuffled toward us. A coat of crimson covered his face. He was muttering to himself over and over. His face frozen in a state of perpetual shock. His pupils were dilated to an almost animalistic degree. My commander took note of this, and his old self seemed to break through.

“Martin! What happened, soldier?!” Martin didn’t react; he just kept walking and muttering to himself.

“Soldier! Look at me. What happened?” my commander said in an almost compassionate voice. Martin finally stopped and looked at him with a detached stare.

“I killed us. I killed us.”

“What do you mean, soldier?” Before my commander could ask again, Martin raised his rifle. He gripped the bolt, cocking it back with a hushed metallic echo following suit.

“Martin, stop! We’re… we’re your friends!” I yelled, pleading with Martin, hoping sense would return to him. It did nothing. He raised the rifle and aimed it at our commander. 

“Martin! Sto—” The sound of roaring gunfire rang in my ears. I looked at our commander and saw him go limp. A dark stain began to spread where the bullet had struck. I looked back at Martin. I looked at him with fear.

And with this sense of fear gnawing at me, I ran.

Nixon’s howling immediately caused both sides to cease fire.

“What the hell! You said he was dead!” Martin barked at me.

“Explain yourself, now,” my commander spoke in a voice teetering between anger and confusion.

How could I explain how the man—no, the friend—I claimed I had seen die was still among the living? For damn certain he was dead. I saw the bullet pierce his neck, ripping straight through it. I knew what I saw, what I heard. There was no mistaking that event, no matter how sickening it was.

“I… I know what I saw,” I said, unsure if I was telling myself the truth.

“Do you? Do you actually know what you saw? Cause… cause what I heard just now says you're full of horseshit!” Tension was growing among us, and it was getting worse with each unanswered second.

“Lieutenant Martin! Calm down. I… I think Kennedy is telling the truth.”

An hour passed, and I could feel the adrenaline that had fought off my exhaustion wearing off. I knew if I kept going I would end up just like… Never mind.

And it wasn’t just me who was on the verge of collapse. My commander and Martin had been fighting the urge to return to the peacefulness of sleep. But peacefulness and relaxation in our current predicament would get you killed, or something far worse.

“Commander, what do we do? The enemy hasn’t returned fire in over an hour. And… shouldn’t we check on Nixon’s current condition?” Martin looked at our commander with the look of a scared child. Shaking off his drowsiness, my commander stared back at Martin as if the answer would pop into his brain.

“Martin, we’re not even sure where the enemy is, and we don’t want to end up like…”

“Just fucking say his name! His name was Nixon Smith… He’s not a nobody! He was a fucking hero!” My commander had a look of shock and sadness at the sound of hearing Nixon’s full name.

“Soldiers, we are to head back toward the shoreline and attempt to call in for backup. We don’t know how many of the damn soldiers are hugging the trees on the island, so—”

“It’s better to call in for backup,” Martin intercepted. He winced, expecting the commander to go on a rant. Instead, the commander simply nodded, and we headed south, back toward the shoreline.

Footsteps echoed via the crunching of leaves, causing me to flinch in anticipation of the enemy. They could be anywhere, everywhere. Hell, they could be under our very feet if they were dedicated enough. And I wasn’t alone in this intense feeling of paranoia. Martin's eyes mirrored it as well. I saw he was just as scared as me. I was told to never show cowardice when faced with the icy embrace of death. We all were. But it wasn’t possible. No sane man would openly welcome death, and if he did, he was either a damn fool or batshit crazy.

“How close are we, Martin?”

Silence. Our commander asked once again, “How close are we, soldier!”

Martin jumped, fumbling for his words. “We sh-sh… Ahem. We should be close, just past those trees.”

I looked to where he was pointing and saw the familiar brightness of open land. As if a curious child took over my body, I sprinted toward the glow.

Instead of the beach, I was met with the clearing. No, we couldn’t have gone in circles, right? We went in a straight path the entire time, not taking a single turn. No, my mind had to be playing tricks on me. It had to be.

“What the hell!” Martin howled. The commander stood in silence.

“Let’s turn around.” The monotone voice of the commander struck an odd nerve. He wasn’t angry at Martin. There was no calling Martin a bonehead, no telling him how much of a dumbass he was. Just a simple order—one that my feet seemed to immediately follow.

My whole body ached with a throbbing pain. I could barely think straight with how much it hurt. I needed for this to be over with. I just wanted this nightmare to end.

We saw light once more; this time, it had to be the shoreline. Right? It had to be. It just had to be.

I expected the sound of crashing waves and the pungent scent of salt to meet my senses.

“No. Not again. No, this isn’t fucking happening.”

How? How did we end up back at the fucking clearing?!

My commander started to violently shake. Martin fell to his knees and attempted to speak, until finally, the words came out in a coherent structure.

“Nixon was lucky. Because right now… God has truly forsaken us.”

Hey guys I’ve been stressing about making a part two to my story Welcome to the Jungle:Part 1. anytime I’ve written a sequel it always falls flat or I become hyper critical of it myself. But I really enjoy this story and want to make sure it lives up to part 1

any ideas that could help?

Edit: thanks to you guys I got the courage to write my rough draft of part two.

The stench of ammonia causes me to stir awake. It is an awful but oddly familiar smell—a smell I have begun to associate with where I currently reside: St. James Hospital. Maybe calling it a hospital is too generous. It is more like a cage. It’s too small, and it reeks of the dying elderly. Not only that, but the bleach-white walls that I have to look at day in and day out are enough to drive anyone to pure boredom. 

The only real entertainment I have is listening to the doctors' chatter. Their conversations can range from mundane things, such as home life, to more entertaining topics. Morbid topics. Taboo, you might say. But to me, it perks my ears every time I hear their tone of voice drop to a somber echo.

I have always been confused about why the doctors and nurses seem to be upset when they lose a patient. I mean, how can they not have gotten used to the sight of the Reaper visiting? It just doesn’t make logical sense. Isn’t logic what the whole practice of medicine is built on, or was that just a fallacy I’ve been foolishly made to believe?

As my body regains all the functions that sleep seemed to rob, it comes back. That searing, white-hot pain. It's a reminder, a mockery of what they did to me.

However, I don’t look back at what they did with anger. No ounce of hatred flows in my veins. No, I look back at what they did with a sense of curiosity. I want to know why they screamed when they caused my afflictions. They wanted to cause me pain, right? So why was fear their first reaction?

Does everyone lack the logic that I seem to holster?

The clicking of footsteps approaches my room. They echo off the hospital corridors, coming toward my door at a rhythmic pace.

One.

Two.

Three knocks on the door. After the third, the door clicks open and an overly cheery man enters the room.

“Good news, Jeff, you get to go home today!”

The stench of ammonia causes me to stir awake. It is an awful but oddly familiar smell—a smell I have begun to associate with where I currently reside: St. James Hospital. Maybe calling it a hospital is too generous. It is more like a cage. It’s too small, and it reeks of the dying elderly. Not only that, but the bleach-white walls that I have to look at day in and day out are enough to drive anyone to pure boredom. 

The only real entertainment I have is listening to the doctors' chatter. Their conversations can range from mundane things, such as home life, to more entertaining topics. Morbid topics. Taboo, you might say. But to me, it perks my ears every time I hear their tone of voice drop to a somber echo.

I have always been confused about why the doctors and nurses seem to be upset when they lose a patient. I mean, how can they not have gotten used to the sight of the Reaper visiting? It just doesn’t make logical sense. Isn’t logic what the whole practice of medicine is built on, or was that just a fallacy I’ve been foolishly made to believe?

As my body regains all the functions that sleep seemed to rob, it comes back. That searing, white-hot pain. It's a reminder, a mockery of what they did to me.

However, I don’t look back at what they did with anger. No ounce of hatred flows in my veins. No, I look back at what they did with a sense of curiosity. I want to know why they screamed when they caused my afflictions. They wanted to cause me pain, right? So why was fear their first reaction?

Does everyone lack the logic that I seem to holster?

The clicking of footsteps approaches my room. They echo off the hospital corridors, coming toward my door at a rhythmic pace.

One.

Two.

Three knocks on the door. After the third, the door clicks open and an overly cheery man enters the room.

“Good news, Jeff, you get to go home today!”

“Rise and shine, jarhead!”

My eyes click open, and standing in front of me is my commander. He towers over my slumped body.

“Still feeling tired? Too bad! Wake your ass up, G.I.!”

I guess I better listen to the jackass. I shift my back, sit up straight, and hear a loud, wet pop. I look up at him and give him a sly grin.

“Morning, sir!” I say with a tinge of sarcasm.

Regaining my senses, I take notice of the vast ocean around us. The overpowering smell of the water assaults my nose, causing me to flinch. It takes a minute for my nose to adjust to the salty air that engulfs me. The waves knock the landing craft around with a violent force that makes me upchuck slightly. The others take notice of my seasick state and snicker.

“Ey, don’t lose your lunch, bud! Hahaha!”

“Shut up, jerk!” I snap.

I’m tired of dealing with these three boneheads—have been for the last six months. But at the same time, they’re like family, so I can’t really hate the guys. We’ve been through the worst of it. We’ve seen everything the enemy has to offer. Things that would make the average man turn the gun on himself. Things that would shatter morale like glass. Thankfully, we’re not average men. We’re soldiers, trained killers… heroes?

“Sir!” Martin shouted. For some reason, he sounded confused.

“What is it, Martin!?” my commander barked. He wasn’t the type of man who liked questions.

“The map says there should be ocean in front of us, right?”

“What are you yapping about, G.I.!?”

My commander, keeping his balance on the shaking vessel, stomped toward Martin. Before he could go on an anger-filled rant, he paused. His face went from a strawberry red to a sickly white. I turned my head to get a look at what they saw. I felt my blood run ice cold.

There in front of us was an island. How? We mapped out this route before we even thought about boarding this rust bucket. How?

Martin steered us in a different direction, away from the mysterious island. And we thought we were in the clear. Back on route. Until thirty minutes later. There again, like a pest, was the island.

By this point, we were beyond confused, and our commander’s patience began to run paper-thin.

“Martin, you goddamn bonehead, do you know left from right? You must have a special talent for messing up simple directions!”

I could tell my commander was just as confused but didn’t want to admit to it. Was he scared? Could the man who makes himself out to be made of iron actually feel fear?

“Ey, sir, we’re wasting gas at this point. I think we should, you know, head toward the island!” Nixon chimed in, finally speaking up.

My commander pondered for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

“Martin, take us toward land.”

The ship dragged on the sand before stopping. We made landfall, which meant our time of tense relaxation came to an end. You could never be too careful with the enemy; they were tricky. They could be on you in a heartbeat before you were even able to cock the bolt on your rifle. So it was better to be alert and keep your eyes peeled, like a predator does when it hunts.

Hopping off the landing craft, my feet hit the sand with a hiss.

“Alright! Let’s find a place to set up camp for the night!”

We stared at the commander with blank expressions of pure exhaustion.

“Stop being a bunch of sissies and move!”

After a cascade of groans, we made our way inland. The army of trees engulfed us as we went deeper and deeper into what seemed to be a jungle. However, something felt off. Usually, even during the most violent conflicts, you could at least see birds or catch glimpses of them. They were hard to miss, after all; even a blind man could see the colorful birds. However, for some reason, none were to be seen or heard. This, for some odd reason, didn’t sit right with me. I gripped my rifle harder, causing a blister on my hand to tear open.

“You alright there, bud?” Nixon asked in a hushed voice.

I turned to look at him and saw he had the same look he always did. I swear the man would still smile if he met the devil himself. Not wanting to sound scared, I steadied my voice. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just this heat is getting to me.”

“I hear you on that!” he responded, his smile growing wider.

We walked in the humid jungle for what felt like hours. My body was soaked from head to toe in sweat. The exhaustion I felt before was worsened by this difficult hike. We finally stopped walking when we found a clearing in the forest.

The clearing was almost alien in nature. Instead of a rough patch of land surrounded by a jagged tree line, we were met with soft grass and a tree line that encompassed us all in an almost uniform fashion.

“Ahhhh. Finally, air that doesn’t smell like salt and fish!” Martin shouted.

“Shut your trap, G.I.! We’re in an unknown area, and that means the enemy could be in the trees waiting for a bonehead like you to mess up!” my commander barked.

I could tell he was deathly serious. And I knew the man was correct, because if you were captured, you weren’t going home. Not even a piece of you would be found.

Nighttime came, and so did the dread that had secretly built up within me. Nighttime was when they loved to “hunt.” It was the time they could pick off your comrades like flies. And of course, I was assigned to night watch along with Nixon. I could tell he didn’t feel the fear I felt. Like I said, the man could run to hell and back like he just went on a picnic.

“Geez, you thought the night would cool things down, but I’m still sweating like a hog,” Nixon said, wiping his brow.

“Yeah, I hear you on that,” I said, trying to make some semblance of small talk.

“Hey, you remember that time when Martin almost blew himself up? The moron didn’t throw the grenade far enough and, well, he learned a hard lesson that day, hahahaha!”

“Yeah, I remember. I don’t think I've seen the commander that angry since then.”

Hours passed and still no sign of any unwanted visitors. No tree branches snapping. No leaves rustling. Nothing. At this point, I was sure we were alone on the island.

“I’m gonna take a piss. I’ll be back.”

Nixon made his way toward the tree line. As he headed back, a loud snap burst out. I watched Nixon fall over and lay on the ground. His screams quickly went down to a sickening, wet gargle.

“Wake up! Wake up! We’re under attack! They—they got Nixon! He’s dead! They killed Nixon!” I screamed at my commander and Martin, pleading for them to wake up.

I ran toward where I set my rifle, cocked the bolt, and turned around to face where our enemy hid. The other two followed suit, and we turned our sights to the tree line.

Gunshots rang out on both sides. When they fired, we hid behind a couple of large, weathered rocks—the only cover we had. And it wasn’t going to hold forever. We ate through our ammo supply quickly. Bullet after bullet rang out in the air, neither side gaining anything.

That was until we heard a familiar scream. It belonged to… Nixon?

“Rise and shine, jarhead!”

My eyes click open, and standing in front of me is my commander. He towers over my slumped body.

“Still feeling tired? Too bad! Wake your ass up, G.I.!”

I guess I better listen to the jackass. I shift my back, sit up straight, and hear a loud, wet pop. I look up at him and give him a sly grin.

“Morning, sir!” I say with a tinge of sarcasm.

Regaining my senses, I take notice of the vast ocean around us. The overpowering smell of the water assaults my nose, causing me to flinch. It takes a minute for my nose to adjust to the salty air that engulfs me. The waves knock the landing craft around with a violent force that makes me upchuck slightly. The others take notice of my seasick state and snicker.

“Ey, don’t lose your lunch, bud! Hahaha!”

“Shut up, jerk!” I snap.

I’m tired of dealing with these three boneheads—have been for the last six months. But at the same time, they’re like family, so I can’t really hate the guys. We’ve been through the worst of it. We’ve seen everything the enemy has to offer. Things that would make the average man turn the gun on himself. Things that would shatter morale like glass. Thankfully, we’re not average men. We’re soldiers, trained killers… heroes?

“Sir!” Martin shouted. For some reason, he sounded confused.

“What is it, Martin!?” my commander barked. He wasn’t the type of man who liked questions.

“The map says there should be ocean in front of us, right?”

“What are you yapping about, G.I.!?”

My commander, keeping his balance on the shaking vessel, stomped toward Martin. Before he could go on an anger-filled rant, he paused. His face went from a strawberry red to a sickly white. I turned my head to get a look at what they saw. I felt my blood run ice cold.

There in front of us was an island. How? We mapped out this route before we even thought about boarding this rust bucket. How?

Martin steered us in a different direction, away from the mysterious island. And we thought we were in the clear. Back on route. Until thirty minutes later. There again, like a pest, was the island.

By this point, we were beyond confused, and our commander’s patience began to run paper-thin.

“Martin, you goddamn bonehead, do you know left from right? You must have a special talent for messing up simple directions!”

I could tell my commander was just as confused but didn’t want to admit to it. Was he scared? Could the man who makes himself out to be made of iron actually feel fear?

“Ey, sir, we’re wasting gas at this point. I think we should, you know, head toward the island!” Nixon chimed in, finally speaking up.

My commander pondered for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

“Martin, take us toward land.”

The ship dragged on the sand before stopping. We made landfall, which meant our time of tense relaxation came to an end. You could never be too careful with the enemy; they were tricky. They could be on you in a heartbeat before you were even able to cock the bolt on your rifle. So it was better to be alert and keep your eyes peeled, like a predator does when it hunts.

Hopping off the landing craft, my feet hit the sand with a hiss.

“Alright! Let’s find a place to set up camp for the night!”

We stared at the commander with blank expressions of pure exhaustion.

“Stop being a bunch of sissies and move!”

After a cascade of groans, we made our way inland. The army of trees engulfed us as we went deeper and deeper into what seemed to be a jungle. However, something felt off. Usually, even during the most violent conflicts, you could at least see birds or catch glimpses of them. They were hard to miss, after all; even a blind man could see the colorful birds. However, for some reason, none were to be seen or heard. This, for some odd reason, didn’t sit right with me. I gripped my rifle harder, causing a blister on my hand to tear open.

“You alright there, bud?” Nixon asked in a hushed voice.

I turned to look at him and saw he had the same look he always did. I swear the man would still smile if he met the devil himself. Not wanting to sound scared, I steadied my voice. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just this heat is getting to me.”

“I hear you on that!” he responded, his smile growing wider.

We walked in the humid jungle for what felt like hours. My body was soaked from head to toe in sweat. The exhaustion I felt before was worsened by this difficult hike. We finally stopped walking when we found a clearing in the forest.

The clearing was almost alien in nature. Instead of a rough patch of land surrounded by a jagged tree line, we were met with soft grass and a tree line that encompassed us all in an almost uniform fashion.

“Ahhhh. Finally, air that doesn’t smell like salt and fish!” Martin shouted.

“Shut your trap, G.I.! We’re in an unknown area, and that means the enemy could be in the trees waiting for a bonehead like you to mess up!” my commander barked.

I could tell he was deathly serious. And I knew the man was correct, because if you were captured, you weren’t going home. Not even a piece of you would be found.

Nighttime came, and so did the dread that had secretly built up within me. Nighttime was when they loved to “hunt.” It was the time they could pick off your comrades like flies. And of course, I was assigned to night watch along with Nixon. I could tell he didn’t feel the fear I felt. Like I said, the man could run to hell and back like he just went on a picnic.

“Geez, you thought the night would cool things down, but I’m still sweating like a hog,” Nixon said, wiping his brow.

“Yeah, I hear you on that,” I said, trying to make some semblance of small talk.

“Hey, you remember that time when Martin almost blew himself up? The moron didn’t throw the grenade far enough and, well, he learned a hard lesson that day, hahahaha!”

“Yeah, I remember. I don’t think I've seen the commander that angry since then.”

Hours passed and still no sign of any unwanted visitors. No tree branches snapping. No leaves rustling. Nothing. At this point, I was sure we were alone on the island.

“I’m gonna take a piss. I’ll be back.”

Nixon made his way toward the tree line. As he headed back, a loud snap burst out. I watched Nixon fall over and lay on the ground. His screams quickly went down to a sickening, wet gargle.

“Wake up! Wake up! We’re under attack! They—they got Nixon! He’s dead! They killed Nixon!” I screamed at my commander and Martin, pleading for them to wake up.

I ran toward where I set my rifle, cocked the bolt, and turned around to face where our enemy hid. The other two followed suit, and we turned our sights to the tree line.

Gunshots rang out on both sides. When they fired, we hid behind a couple of large, weathered rocks—the only cover we had. And it wasn’t going to hold forever. We ate through our ammo supply quickly. Bullet after bullet rang out in the air, neither side gaining anything.

That was until we heard a familiar scream. It belonged to… Nixon?

“Rise and shine, jarhead!”

My eyes click open, and standing in front of me is my commander. He towers over my slumped body.

“Still feeling tired? Too bad! Wake your ass up, G.I.!”

I guess I better listen to the jackass. I shift my back, sit up straight, and hear a loud, wet pop. I look up at him and give him a sly grin.

“Morning, sir!” I say with a tinge of sarcasm.

Regaining my senses, I take notice of the vast ocean around us. The overpowering smell of the water assaults my nose, causing me to flinch. It takes a minute for my nose to adjust to the salty air that engulfs me. The waves knock the landing craft around with a violent force that makes me upchuck slightly. The others take notice of my seasick state and snicker.

“Ey, don’t lose your lunch, bud! Hahaha!”

“Shut up, jerk!” I snap.

I’m tired of dealing with these three boneheads—have been for the last six months. But at the same time, they’re like family, so I can’t really hate the guys. We’ve been through the worst of it. We’ve seen everything the enemy has to offer. Things that would make the average man turn the gun on himself. Things that would shatter morale like glass. Thankfully, we’re not average men. We’re soldiers, trained killers… heroes?

“Sir!” Martin shouted. For some reason, he sounded confused.

“What is it, Martin!?” my commander barked. He wasn’t the type of man who liked questions.

“The map says there should be ocean in front of us, right?”

“What are you yapping about, G.I.!?”

My commander, keeping his balance on the shaking vessel, stomped toward Martin. Before he could go on an anger-filled rant, he paused. His face went from a strawberry red to a sickly white. I turned my head to get a look at what they saw. I felt my blood run ice cold.

There in front of us was an island. How? We mapped out this route before we even thought about boarding this rust bucket. How?

Martin steered us in a different direction, away from the mysterious island. And we thought we were in the clear. Back on route. Until thirty minutes later. There again, like a pest, was the island.

By this point, we were beyond confused, and our commander’s patience began to run paper-thin.

“Martin, you goddamn bonehead, do you know left from right? You must have a special talent for messing up simple directions!”

I could tell my commander was just as confused but didn’t want to admit to it. Was he scared? Could the man who makes himself out to be made of iron actually feel fear?

“Ey, sir, we’re wasting gas at this point. I think we should, you know, head toward the island!” Nixon chimed in, finally speaking up.

My commander pondered for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

“Martin, take us toward land.”

The ship dragged on the sand before stopping. We made landfall, which meant our time of tense relaxation came to an end. You could never be too careful with the enemy; they were tricky. They could be on you in a heartbeat before you were even able to cock the bolt on your rifle. So it was better to be alert and keep your eyes peeled, like a predator does when it hunts.

Hopping off the landing craft, my feet hit the sand with a hiss.

“Alright! Let’s find a place to set up camp for the night!”

We stared at the commander with blank expressions of pure exhaustion.

“Stop being a bunch of sissies and move!”

After a cascade of groans, we made our way inland. The army of trees engulfed us as we went deeper and deeper into what seemed to be a jungle. However, something felt off. Usually, even during the most violent conflicts, you could at least see birds or catch glimpses of them. They were hard to miss, after all; even a blind man could see the colorful birds. However, for some reason, none were to be seen or heard. This, for some odd reason, didn’t sit right with me. I gripped my rifle harder, causing a blister on my hand to tear open.

“You alright there, bud?” Nixon asked in a hushed voice.

I turned to look at him and saw he had the same look he always did. I swear the man would still smile if he met the devil himself. Not wanting to sound scared, I steadied my voice. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just this heat is getting to me.”

“I hear you on that!” he responded, his smile growing wider.

We walked in the humid jungle for what felt like hours. My body was soaked from head to toe in sweat. The exhaustion I felt before was worsened by this difficult hike. We finally stopped walking when we found a clearing in the forest.

The clearing was almost alien in nature. Instead of a rough patch of land surrounded by a jagged tree line, we were met with soft grass and a tree line that encompassed us all in an almost uniform fashion.

“Ahhhh. Finally, air that doesn’t smell like salt and fish!” Martin shouted.

“Shut your trap, G.I.! We’re in an unknown area, and that means the enemy could be in the trees waiting for a bonehead like you to mess up!” my commander barked.

I could tell he was deathly serious. And I knew the man was correct, because if you were captured, you weren’t going home. Not even a piece of you would be found.

Nighttime came, and so did the dread that had secretly built up within me. Nighttime was when they loved to “hunt.” It was the time they could pick off your comrades like flies. And of course, I was assigned to night watch along with Nixon. I could tell he didn’t feel the fear I felt. Like I said, the man could run to hell and back like he just went on a picnic.

“Geez, you thought the night would cool things down, but I’m still sweating like a hog,” Nixon said, wiping his brow.

“Yeah, I hear you on that,” I said, trying to make some semblance of small talk.

“Hey, you remember that time when Martin almost blew himself up? The moron didn’t throw the grenade far enough and, well, he learned a hard lesson that day, hahahaha!”

“Yeah, I remember. I don’t think I've seen the commander that angry since then.”

Hours passed and still no sign of any unwanted visitors. No tree branches snapping. No leaves rustling. Nothing. At this point, I was sure we were alone on the island.

“I’m gonna take a piss. I’ll be back.”

Nixon made his way toward the tree line. As he headed back, a loud snap burst out. I watched Nixon fall over and lay on the ground. His screams quickly went down to a sickening, wet gargle.

“Wake up! Wake up! We’re under attack! They—they got Nixon! He’s dead! They killed Nixon!” I screamed at my commander and Martin, pleading for them to wake up.

I ran toward where I set my rifle, cocked the bolt, and turned around to face where our enemy hid. The other two followed suit, and we turned our sights to the tree line.

Gunshots rang out on both sides. When they fired, we hid behind a couple of large, weathered rocks—the only cover we had. And it wasn’t going to hold forever. We ate through our ammo supply quickly. Bullet after bullet rang out in the air, neither side gaining anything.

That was until we heard a familiar scream. It belonged to… Nixon?

“Rise and shine, jarhead!”

My eyes click open, and standing in front of me is my commander. He towers over my slumped body.

“Still feeling tired? Too bad! Wake your ass up, G.I.!”

I guess I better listen to the jackass. I shift my back, sit up straight, and hear a loud, wet pop. I look up at him and give him a sly grin.

“Morning, sir!” I say with a tinge of sarcasm.

Regaining my senses, I take notice of the vast ocean around us. The overpowering smell of the water assaults my nose, causing me to flinch. It takes a minute for my nose to adjust to the salty air that engulfs me. The waves knock the landing craft around with a violent force that makes me upchuck slightly. The others take notice of my seasick state and snicker.

“Ey, don’t lose your lunch, bud! Hahaha!”

“Shut up, jerk!” I snap.

I’m tired of dealing with these three boneheads—have been for the last six months. But at the same time, they’re like family, so I can’t really hate the guys. We’ve been through the worst of it. We’ve seen everything the enemy has to offer. Things that would make the average man turn the gun on himself. Things that would shatter morale like glass. Thankfully, we’re not average men. We’re soldiers, trained killers… heroes?

“Sir!” Martin shouted. For some reason, he sounded confused.

“What is it, Martin!?” my commander barked. He wasn’t the type of man who liked questions.

“The map says there should be ocean in front of us, right?”

“What are you yapping about, G.I.!?”

My commander, keeping his balance on the shaking vessel, stomped toward Martin. Before he could go on an anger-filled rant, he paused. His face went from a strawberry red to a sickly white. I turned my head to get a look at what they saw. I felt my blood run ice cold.

There in front of us was an island. How? We mapped out this route before we even thought about boarding this rust bucket. How?

Martin steered us in a different direction, away from the mysterious island. And we thought we were in the clear. Back on route. Until thirty minutes later. There again, like a pest, was the island.

By this point, we were beyond confused, and our commander’s patience began to run paper-thin.

“Martin, you goddamn bonehead, do you know left from right? You must have a special talent for messing up simple directions!”

I could tell my commander was just as confused but didn’t want to admit to it. Was he scared? Could the man who makes himself out to be made of iron actually feel fear?

“Ey, sir, we’re wasting gas at this point. I think we should, you know, head toward the island!” Nixon chimed in, finally speaking up.

My commander pondered for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh.

“Martin, take us toward land.”

The ship dragged on the sand before stopping. We made landfall, which meant our time of tense relaxation came to an end. You could never be too careful with the enemy; they were tricky. They could be on you in a heartbeat before you were even able to cock the bolt on your rifle. So it was better to be alert and keep your eyes peeled, like a predator does when it hunts.

Hopping off the landing craft, my feet hit the sand with a hiss.

“Alright! Let’s find a place to set up camp for the night!”

We stared at the commander with blank expressions of pure exhaustion.

“Stop being a bunch of sissies and move!”

After a cascade of groans, we made our way inland. The army of trees engulfed us as we went deeper and deeper into what seemed to be a jungle. However, something felt off. Usually, even during the most violent conflicts, you could at least see birds or catch glimpses of them. They were hard to miss, after all; even a blind man could see the colorful birds. However, for some reason, none were to be seen or heard. This, for some odd reason, didn’t sit right with me. I gripped my rifle harder, causing a blister on my hand to tear open.

“You alright there, bud?” Nixon asked in a hushed voice.

I turned to look at him and saw he had the same look he always did. I swear the man would still smile if he met the devil himself. Not wanting to sound scared, I steadied my voice. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just this heat is getting to me.”

“I hear you on that!” he responded, his smile growing wider.

We walked in the humid jungle for what felt like hours. My body was soaked from head to toe in sweat. The exhaustion I felt before was worsened by this difficult hike. We finally stopped walking when we found a clearing in the forest.

The clearing was almost alien in nature. Instead of a rough patch of land surrounded by a jagged tree line, we were met with soft grass and a tree line that encompassed us all in an almost uniform fashion.

“Ahhhh. Finally, air that doesn’t smell like salt and fish!” Martin shouted.

“Shut your trap, G.I.! We’re in an unknown area, and that means the enemy could be in the trees waiting for a bonehead like you to mess up!” my commander barked.

I could tell he was deathly serious. And I knew the man was correct, because if you were captured, you weren’t going home. Not even a piece of you would be found.

Nighttime came, and so did the dread that had secretly built up within me. Nighttime was when they loved to “hunt.” It was the time they could pick off your comrades like flies. And of course, I was assigned to night watch along with Nixon. I could tell he didn’t feel the fear I felt. Like I said, the man could run to hell and back like he just went on a picnic.

“Geez, you thought the night would cool things down, but I’m still sweating like a hog,” Nixon said, wiping his brow.

“Yeah, I hear you on that,” I said, trying to make some semblance of small talk.

“Hey, you remember that time when Martin almost blew himself up? The moron didn’t throw the grenade far enough and, well, he learned a hard lesson that day, hahahaha!”

“Yeah, I remember. I don’t think I've seen the commander that angry since then.”

Hours passed and still no sign of any unwanted visitors. No tree branches snapping. No leaves rustling. Nothing. At this point, I was sure we were alone on the island.

“I’m gonna take a piss. I’ll be back.”

Nixon made his way toward the tree line. As he headed back, a loud snap burst out. I watched Nixon fall over and lay on the ground. His screams quickly went down to a sickening, wet gargle.

“Wake up! Wake up! We’re under attack! They—they got Nixon! He’s dead! They killed Nixon!” I screamed at my commander and Martin, pleading for them to wake up.

I ran toward where I set my rifle, cocked the bolt, and turned around to face where our enemy hid. The other two followed suit, and we turned our sights to the tree line.

Gunshots rang out on both sides. When they fired, we hid behind a couple of large, weathered rocks—the only cover we had. And it wasn’t going to hold forever. We ate through our ammo supply quickly. Bullet after bullet rang out in the air, neither side gaining anything.

That was until we heard a familiar scream. It belonged to… Nixon?

Flesh squelches. Bone creaks with each movement. I keep moving as an intense pain burns in my abdomen. The pain builds and builds, never-ending. I feel a pool of saliva fill my mouth, flowing out onto my lips. The hunger. It never ends. Never.

The smell of rot hangs in the air, the scent mixing with flesh that has been set ablaze. Someone is close by. Someone who can satiate my pain. I continue toward the smell.

I shuffle toward my goal. My destination.

I enter the treeline, the forest engulfing me. A sea of earth and green, beautiful to some, but maddening to others. My feet scrape against sharp stones spread across the forest floor, drawing blood and causing the scent of copper to mix with the overbearing scent of damp soil. The smell is pungent but bearable. The pain, however, is agonizing. Even in my grueling condition, I keep moving toward the odor of rot.

The aroma grows stronger, and so does my hunger. My mouth froths and I feel a jitter of—excitement? A strange feeling, excitement. Why would I feel this way? Was it me or the hunger thinking? No matter; my goal is nearly reached.

I continue through the forest, seeing the others pacing themselves toward the same goal. I want to be the first. The first to drown out their pain. The first to quench my dry mouth. I want to move faster; I need to go faster. But I can’t. I am stuck at this stuporous pace. I am forced to watch others ahead of me get to the destination first. I hate it.

Bursts of sound echo throughout the forest. I am close. I see some of the others fall, a familiar crimson liquid pooling from where they lie. I see some of the more desperate of us consume the ones who have fallen, sinking their decayed black teeth into the bodies. I do not fall to such temptation.

Competition slims to nearly nothing. Not many of us make it to the goal. But I do. I make it to the goal, to the destination.

I see her. She is a small one and smells of lavender—a sweet scent. I stumble toward her, my arm gripping her shoulder. She doesn’t fight back.

I walk back toward the forest, for I know I need to find a new goal. Soon, the pain will return.

Flesh squelches. Bone creaks with each movement. I keep moving as an intense pain burns in my abdomen. The pain builds and builds, never-ending. I feel a pool of saliva fill my mouth, flowing out onto my lips. The hunger. It never ends. Never.

The smell of rot hangs in the air, the scent mixing with flesh that has been set ablaze. Someone is close by. Someone who can satiate my pain. I continue toward the smell.

I shuffle toward my goal. My destination.

I enter the treeline, the forest engulfing me. A sea of earth and green, beautiful to some, but maddening to others. My feet scrape against sharp stones spread across the forest floor, drawing blood and causing the scent of copper to mix with the overbearing scent of damp soil. The smell is pungent but bearable. The pain, however, is agonizing. Even in my grueling condition, I keep moving toward the odor of rot.

The aroma grows stronger, and so does my hunger. My mouth froths and I feel a jitter of—excitement? A strange feeling, excitement. Why would I feel this way? Was it me or the hunger thinking? No matter; my goal is nearly reached.

I continue through the forest, seeing the others pacing themselves toward the same goal. I want to be the first. The first to drown out their pain. The first to quench my dry mouth. I want to move faster; I need to go faster. But I can’t. I am stuck at this stuporous pace. I am forced to watch others ahead of me get to the destination first. I hate it.

Bursts of sound echo throughout the forest. I am close. I see some of the others fall, a familiar crimson liquid pooling from where they lie. I see some of the more desperate of us consume the ones who have fallen, sinking their decayed black teeth into the bodies. I do not fall to such temptation.

Competition slims to nearly nothing. Not many of us make it to the goal. But I do. I make it to the goal, to the destination.

I see her. She is a small one and smells of lavender—a sweet scent. I stumble toward her, my arm gripping her shoulder. She doesn’t fight back.

I walk back toward the forest, for I know I need to find a new goal. Soon, the pain will return.

Flesh squelches. Bone creaks with each movement. I keep moving as an intense pain burns in my abdomen. The pain builds and builds, never-ending. I feel a pool of saliva fill my mouth, flowing out onto my lips. The hunger. It never ends. Never.

The smell of rot hangs in the air, the scent mixing with flesh that has been set ablaze. Someone is close by. Someone who can satiate my pain. I continue toward the smell.

I shuffle toward my goal. My destination.

I enter the treeline, the forest engulfing me. A sea of earth and green, beautiful to some, but maddening to others. My feet scrape against sharp stones spread across the forest floor, drawing blood and causing the scent of copper to mix with the overbearing scent of damp soil. The smell is pungent but bearable. The pain, however, is agonizing. Even in my grueling condition, I keep moving toward the odor of rot.

The aroma grows stronger, and so does my hunger. My mouth froths and I feel a jitter of—excitement? A strange feeling, excitement. Why would I feel this way? Was it me or the hunger thinking? No matter; my goal is nearly reached.

I continue through the forest, seeing the others pacing themselves toward the same goal. I want to be the first. The first to drown out their pain. The first to quench my dry mouth. I want to move faster; I need to go faster. But I can’t. I am stuck at this stuporous pace. I am forced to watch others ahead of me get to the destination first. I hate it.

Bursts of sound echo throughout the forest. I am close. I see some of the others fall, a familiar crimson liquid pooling from where they lie. I see some of the more desperate of us consume the ones who have fallen, sinking their decayed black teeth into the bodies. I do not fall to such temptation.

Competition slims to nearly nothing. Not many of us make it to the goal. But I do. I make it to the goal, to the destination.

I see her. She is a small one and smells of lavender—a sweet scent. I stumble toward her, my arm gripping her shoulder. She doesn’t fight back.

I walk back toward the forest, for I know I need to find a new goal. Soon, the pain will return.

The moon is such a beautiful sight to most people. They love the beaming light it casts into the inky shadows of nighttime, and how it stands out proudly against the stars.

I hate it.

The moon is different for me. It’s not a sight to behold; it’s a plague. It is a curse that never goes away, engraved directly into my very flesh. You wouldn’t understand the agony it causes me. It isolates me, forcing me to become a recluse, a nobody. My real name is gone. Now, I could be the monster of a myth—a myth only I know is real.

I used to be normal. I used to have a life that I actually enjoyed, with friends who kept the demon of loneliness at bay. Friends who laughed with me. Friends I could hold close. Not anymore. Not after that day.

That day still sticks to me, haunting my very soul. It started out so normal it was practically mundane. Out of sheer boredom, my friends and I decided to go camping. Everything was perfect. We were laughing and playing around the fire. Even now, I smile every time I recall those memories right before it happened—right before I began hating the concept of life itself.

Nighttime came around, and the moon started to peer out from the tree line. Everyone had gone to sleep, or was trying to. I, however, couldn’t. I felt off.

It started with a slight itch. It was the kind of itch you just brush off because it seems so unimportant. Then it escalated. My whole body burned. From my skin deep down into my bones, everything felt like someone had set it ablaze. My heart began to hammer faster and faster against my ribs. Every breath I took felt like a challenge. I howled, clenching my chest in a tight bear hug, terrified by the raw, animalistic sound tearing out of my own throat.

Then I blacked out.

When I awoke, life as I knew it had ended.

The first thing I noticed was an odd, metallic taste in my mouth, as if someone had crammed copper coins into it. I tried to sit up, but a sudden burst of agony shot throughout my entire body, pinning me to the dirt. It felt like an hour passed before the pain finally stopped and my vision cleared.

But the physical pain wasn't the worst part.

Crimson painted the campsite. The tents we had set up together were shredded into ribbons. Bodies—the people I loved, the friends I had just been laughing with—were spread across the forest floor. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But total shock set in, freezing the air in my lungs. Slowly, I raised a shaking hand to my face. My fingers came back wet. It wasn’t sweat. It was blood.

Their blood.

The moon is such a beautiful sight to most people. They love the beaming light it casts into the inky shadows of nighttime, and how it stands out proudly against the stars.

I hate it.

The moon is different for me. It’s not a sight to behold; it’s a plague. It is a curse that never goes away, engraved directly into my very flesh. You wouldn’t understand the agony it causes me. It isolates me, forcing me to become a recluse, a nobody. My real name is gone. Now, I could be the monster of a myth—a myth only I know is real.

I used to be normal. I used to have a life that I actually enjoyed, with friends who kept the demon of loneliness at bay. Friends who laughed with me. Friends I could hold close. Not anymore. Not after that day.

That day still sticks to me, haunting my very soul. It started out so normal it was practically mundane. Out of sheer boredom, my friends and I decided to go camping. Everything was perfect. We were laughing and playing around the fire. Even now, I smile every time I recall those memories right before it happened—right before I began hating the concept of life itself.

Nighttime came around, and the moon started to peer out from the tree line. Everyone had gone to sleep, or was trying to. I, however, couldn’t. I felt off.

It started with a slight itch. It was the kind of itch you just brush off because it seems so unimportant. Then it escalated. My whole body burned. From my skin deep down into my bones, everything felt like someone had set it ablaze. My heart began to hammer faster and faster against my ribs. Every breath I took felt like a challenge. I howled, clenching my chest in a tight bear hug, terrified by the raw, animalistic sound tearing out of my own throat.

Then I blacked out.

When I awoke, life as I knew it had ended.

The first thing I noticed was an odd, metallic taste in my mouth, as if someone had crammed copper coins into it. I tried to sit up, but a sudden burst of agony shot throughout my entire body, pinning me to the dirt. It felt like an hour passed before the pain finally stopped and my vision cleared.

But the physical pain wasn't the worst part.

Crimson painted the campsite. The tents we had set up together were shredded into ribbons. Bodies—the people I loved, the friends I had just been laughing with—were spread across the forest floor. I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. But total shock set in, freezing the air in my lungs. Slowly, I raised a shaking hand to my face. My fingers came back wet. It wasn’t sweat. It was blood.

Their blood.

Flesh squelches. Bone creaks with each movement. I keep moving as an intense pain burns in my abdomen. The pain builds and builds, never-ending. I feel a pool of saliva fill my mouth, flowing out onto my lips. The hunger. It never ends. Never.

The smell of rot hangs in the air, the scent mixing with flesh that has been set ablaze. Someone is close by. Someone who can satiate my pain. I continue toward the smell.

I shuffle toward my goal. My destination.

I enter the treeline, the forest engulfing me. A sea of earth and green, beautiful to some, but maddening to others. My feet scrape against sharp stones spread across the forest floor, drawing blood and causing the scent of copper to mix with the overbearing scent of damp soil. The smell is pungent but bearable. The pain, however, is agonizing. Even in my grueling condition, I keep moving toward the odor of rot.

The aroma grows stronger, and so does my hunger. My mouth froths and I feel a jitter of—excitement? A strange feeling, excitement. Why would I feel this way? Was it me or the hunger thinking? No matter; my goal is nearly reached.

I continue through the forest, seeing the others pacing themselves toward the same goal. I want to be the first. The first to drown out their pain. The first to quench my dry mouth. I want to move faster; I need to go faster. But I can’t. I am stuck at this stuporous pace. I am forced to watch others ahead of me get to the destination first. I hate it.

Bursts of sound echo throughout the forest. I am close. I see some of the others fall, a familiar crimson liquid pooling from where they lie. I see some of the more desperate of us consume the ones who have fallen, sinking their decayed black teeth into the bodies. I do not fall to such temptation.

Competition slims to nearly nothing. Not many of us make it to the goal. But I do. I make it to the goal, to the destination.

I see her. She is a small one and smells of lavender—a sweet scent. I stumble toward her, my arm gripping her shoulder. She doesn’t fight back.

I walk back toward the forest, for I know I need to find a new goal. Soon, the pain will return.

Flesh squelches. Bone creaks with each movement. I keep moving as an intense pain burns in my abdomen. The pain builds and builds, never-ending. I feel a pool of saliva fill my mouth, flowing out onto my lips. The hunger. It never ends. Never.

The smell of rot hangs in the air, the scent mixing with flesh that has been set ablaze. Someone is close by. Someone who can satiate my pain. I continue toward the smell.

I shuffle toward my goal. My destination.

I enter the treeline, the forest engulfing me. A sea of earth and green, beautiful to some, but maddening to others. My feet scrape against sharp stones spread across the forest floor, drawing blood and causing the scent of copper to mix with the overbearing scent of damp soil. The smell is pungent but bearable. The pain, however, is agonizing. Even in my grueling condition, I keep moving toward the odor of rot.

The aroma grows stronger, and so does my hunger. My mouth froths and I feel a jitter of—excitement? A strange feeling, excitement. Why would I feel this way? Was it me or the hunger thinking? No matter; my goal is nearly reached.

I continue through the forest, seeing the others pacing themselves toward the same goal. I want to be the first. The first to drown out their pain. The first to quench my dry mouth. I want to move faster; I need to go faster. But I can’t. I am stuck at this stuporous pace. I am forced to watch others ahead of me get to the destination first. I hate it.

Bursts of sound echo throughout the forest. I am close. I see some of the others fall, a familiar crimson liquid pooling from where they lie. I see some of the more desperate of us consume the ones who have fallen, sinking their decayed black teeth into the bodies. I do not fall to such temptation.

Competition slims to nearly nothing. Not many of us make it to the goal. But I do. I make it to the goal, to the destination.

I see her. She is a small one and smells of lavender—a sweet scent. I stumble toward her, my arm gripping her shoulder. She doesn’t fight back.

I walk back toward the forest, for I know I need to find a new goal. Soon, the pain will return.

I opened my eyes. I still felt the pain pulsating throughout my body. I still tasted the revolting taste of iron dancing in my mouth. I remembered everything—from the moment the truck hit me, to the exact moment I “died.” What was going on with me? Did I actually “die,” or was it just a very detailed nightmare? Question after question flooded my mind, yet none of those questions led to answers.

Gathering the courage to get out of bed, I felt all over my body, checking if I was injured anywhere. Nothing. Not even a single paper cut. I continued to check my body and stopped once I reached my left wrist. My blood ran ice-cold.

On my left wrist was the familiar, frigid feeling of metal.

I gripped the watch, squeezing it until the palm of my hand bruised.

Regaining my thoughts, I decided the best course of action was to go back to the shop and talk with that woman. Ella. Maybe she could explain what was going on. Maybe she could provide some answers to my sea of questions.

Making my way toward Main Street, I heard a familiar voice call out to me.

“Heya, Scotty! Where ya goin’?” I turned around, and there, running full speed toward me, was Justin. His hair looked as if it was floating as he sprinted. He finally came to a stop and breathed heavily. Regaining his composure, he looked up at me.

“Sorry for the abrupt visit, hehehe! I saw you and couldn’t help but run towards you,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. I wanted to just forget everything and chat with him. But I couldn’t. My curiosity would claw at my mind until I went mad. So, not wanting to be rude, I answered his question.

“Um, to answer you about where I was heading... Um, I was heading to the bakery. I thought I should treat myself, hehe,” I said, forcing myself to crack a half-assed grin.

“Oh, well, you go do that, man. Nice talking with you.” I turned away and made my way back toward Main Street.

“Oh, I forgot to mention—nice watch!” Justin yelled out. I ignored him.

Reaching Main Street, I paced myself toward the shop. I needed all of these questions put to rest. I needed reassurance that everything would be just fine, that maybe Ella could help me out. Even though she seemed like a nutjob, she seemed to hold no ill will against me. Or, at least, I thought she didn’t.

Feet away from the shop, I froze. There was nothing there. No sign. No indication that there ever was a shop to begin with. I peered inside, only to be met with empty space and dust.

My mind went blank. Thought turned to mush. And with that, logic vanished from my brain.

I walked and walked. No destination in mind. Just going wherever my feet carried me.

“Watch out!” a voice screamed. Snapping out of the trance, I looked up. Coming down at Mach speed toward me was a metal beam. Before I could move out of the way, it fell down on me, crushing my skull and turning it to a bloody pulp. The reaper once again embraced me.

I woke up in my bed once again. However, something felt off.

“Good morning, sweetie. Sleep well?” my mother's voice called out to me.

To be continued.

I opened my eyes. I still felt the pain pulsating throughout my body. I still tasted the revolting taste of iron dancing in my mouth. I remembered everything—from the moment the truck hit me, to the exact moment I “died.” What was going on with me? Did I actually “die,” or was it just a very detailed nightmare? Question after question flooded my mind, yet none of those questions led to answers.

Gathering the courage to get out of bed, I felt all over my body, checking if I was injured anywhere. Nothing. Not even a single paper cut. I continued to check my body and stopped once I reached my left wrist. My blood ran ice-cold.

On my left wrist was the familiar, frigid feeling of metal.

I gripped the watch, squeezing it until the palm of my hand bruised.

Regaining my thoughts, I decided the best course of action was to go back to the shop and talk with that woman. Ella. Maybe she could explain what was going on. Maybe she could provide some answers to my sea of questions.

Making my way toward Main Street, I heard a familiar voice call out to me.

“Heya, Scotty! Where ya goin’?” I turned around, and there, running full speed toward me, was Justin. His hair looked as if it was floating as he sprinted. He finally came to a stop and breathed heavily. Regaining his composure, he looked up at me.

“Sorry for the abrupt visit, hehehe! I saw you and couldn’t help but run towards you,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. I wanted to just forget everything and chat with him. But I couldn’t. My curiosity would claw at my mind until I went mad. So, not wanting to be rude, I answered his question.

“Um, to answer you about where I was heading... Um, I was heading to the bakery. I thought I should treat myself, hehe,” I said, forcing myself to crack a half-assed grin.

“Oh, well, you go do that, man. Nice talking with you.” I turned away and made my way back toward Main Street.

“Oh, I forgot to mention—nice watch!” Justin yelled out. I ignored him.

Reaching Main Street, I paced myself toward the shop. I needed all of these questions put to rest. I needed reassurance that everything would be just fine, that maybe Ella could help me out. Even though she seemed like a nutjob, she seemed to hold no ill will against me. Or, at least, I thought she didn’t.

Feet away from the shop, I froze. There was nothing there. No sign. No indication that there ever was a shop to begin with. I peered inside, only to be met with empty space and dust.

My mind went blank. Thought turned to mush. And with that, logic vanished from my brain.

I walked and walked. No destination in mind. Just going wherever my feet carried me.

“Watch out!” a voice screamed. Snapping out of the trance, I looked up. Coming down at Mach speed toward me was a metal beam. Before I could move out of the way, it fell down on me, crushing my skull and turning it to a bloody pulp. The reaper once again embraced me.

I woke up in my bed once again. However, something felt off.

“Good morning, sweetie. Sleep well?” my mother's voice called out to me.

To be continued.

shout out to The Void Echoes for the narration.