It got worse. I swore it couldn’t, but it somehow managed to get darker. Nothing can be done now. I can feel it consuming me. I am almost through something, and I don’t know if I will make it to the other side. I find myself in a thick dead wood. A storm gathers above, blocking the moonlight, the thirsty brush billows in the wind. Every step a crackle below as I fumble forward through the darkness, my hands catching on the brittle branches. The drone of sultry wings above my head, and I see half a dozen crows leave their dying perches and rise as one into the night sky. Their outlines barely visible in the mirk as they disappear into the clouds. A vision of a wonderful open field fills my head, and I can almost smell the fresh grass and hear rushing water from a babbling brook. The sun’s rays envelope everything in a wonderful warmth. But I am pulled away from my reverie as a thorn digs deep into my outstretched palm. I stop, reeling in pain, and yet the crackle of underbrush continues. Another snag, my left cheek nicked. I stumble forward, my path blocked. I look down, but I can’t see my legs. Only a tangle of vines, slowly rising. Barbed brambles reaching from the baffling gloom. Sheer panic grips me, and I fall, my descent cushioned by snapping twigs, grabbing for me. My flesh peeled back slowly, as the thirsty forest drinks and I let out a silent scream.
