Artem
The water’s cold this morning. Colder than usual. Snowmelt coming down from the top of the mountain range, I bet. Winter is thawing.
I force myself to stay in for a minute longer than I want. To plunge my head beneath the surface of the water and stay there, stay there, stay there until my lungs are crying out for oxygen.
And then just a moment longer.
To prove a point to—fuck, to someone, though I don’t know who the hell cares. There’s no one out here but me.
I get out of the water about fifteen minutes after I’ve gotten in. Ice cold droplets sink into my skin, but I shiver and air dry as I walk over to the rock where my clothes are laid out.
I glance down at my body as I dress again.
I have three new scars glistening with the river water. Two from the bullet wounds and one from the stab wound that’s left a long, thin lightning bolt down the side of my torso.
My stomach is a mess of callused tissue. That one took the longest to heal.
Beneath the scar is new muscle. Fresh muscle. Lean and taut and powerful.
My body is a weapon in and of itself. The way it is meant to be.
I plan on using it to its full advantage.
I will not be left lying in the dirt again.
I head up the steep pathway that leads away from the ravine. The climb used to be difficult for me, but with time and day after day of running and hefting rocks, it’s become laughably easy.
Once I’m back on relatively flat surface, I walk fast towards the cabin. These trails are as familiar to me now as the back of my hand. Little by little, I’ve made this land my own.
Traps lurk throughout the woods. Some to catch forest creatures for food. Some to catch any fools who dare wander too close.
The trunks bear markings that point the way to this trail or that one. Others are scarred with bullet holes.
Some from me.
Some from the night everything changed.
I pick up the trail that leads directly to the cabin. As I mount the highest point of the ridge, I hear a whine.
Sighing, I glance to the side to see big brown eyes staring at me from behind a large boulder.
“Fuck,” I growl. “Not you again.”
The dog limps towards me. He looks like shit. A paw that’s twisted inward and fur matted all to hell.
“Fuck off,” I say, walking past him.
The dog whines again like he’s saying something back to me.
I sigh with exasperation. “Is it too fucking much to ask to be left alone?”
The dog blinks up at me, apparently shocked by my reaction. Or maybe he’s just trying to figure out how crazy I was.
According to the people in town, I crossed over into wild, insane mountain man about two and a half months ago.
They’re not wrong.
I ignore the mangy fleabag and keep walking. But I can hear the mutt trailing behind me.