So Below

The trees creak and sway.

The birds sing lovely melodies.

The sunlight graces my face, as if to apologize for how the world has left me. I don't know how long it's been. Days, weeks, months--it all seems to blur together. I'll never forget that first day, though. It was painful. I fought and screamed, and willed myself to keep standing despite the state I was in. A trail of red led them to a large oak tree. There was nothing more I could do, and so I closed my eyes. Nothing happened, for a while. I was there, surrounded by nature, the wind and the animals and the sun all paying no attention to me. After some time, it got dark, of course. The world wouldn't pause just for me.

I remember losing control of my limbs. They were locked; someone had thrown away the key. That night felt colder than all the other nights I had lived through before. The stars were beautiful; the moon hung above, keeping an eye on me. A bear had tried to play with me, but I guess I was boring. Its fur kept me warm for a moment, though. Nothing else bothered me that night. I don't know if it would have been better to have been left alone.

In the morning, someone had unlocked my limbs. It was no longer uncomfortable to lie on my bed of leaves. The sun did its best to warm me up, but the cold was constant now. I felt out of place in a world so full of movement and color. All I could do was observe. Birdwatching was different from what it was before I had ended up under that oak tree. It was harder to name them. I couldn't fall back on my books or my pictures. There was no one to correct me if I was wrong. Still, it was nice, peaceful. I could forget the circumstances of my being for a while.

The next few days passed by quickly. I had acquainted myself with some of the birds. They perched atop me and sang; some were rude and picked at me. It wasn't long before they had started inviting more friends: flies, beetles, foxes, even the bear returned. They gathered around me and lived and played until I was exhausted. It was around that time that each moment that passed seemed to mesh together. It was nearly impossible for me to birdwatch. All the friends that visited me every day stopped coming. I was alone. A long, long time passed. Plants and fungi were my new companions. They didn't talk much, only twisting and growing with my help. More time passed that I can't quite remember.

Yesterday, they stopped by to find me. Like before, their face was blank. They crouched down in front of me, taking all of my nothing in, as if I was an art piece. For some reason, I was scared, just as I had been all that time ago. They could do me no more harm. I could feel no more pain. And yet, I felt helpless, terrified, alone. They muttered something about being surprised I hadn't been found. They mentioned a mother who spent so long looking for her daughter. A father so broken that he found himself at the bottom of a bottle again. They talked about people scouring the woods, friends coming out every single day in hopes of finding... What? This forest is my home... I think. Why were they telling me this? I don't know. But I felt something that I hadn't felt in a while: anger. In that anger came a moment of clarity. What happened was unfair, that I know. These woods are beautiful, but they were never my home, were they? I had a home, somewhere. I had friends and family that weren't covered in fur or scales or feathers. I did more with my day than just birdwatching. I know this. All of that is a distant memory now, though. Everything was taken away from me. It's not my fault. Or maybe it is? If I hadn't... I can't remember. I can't remember a lot of things now.

It's night again. The sky is weeping. I'm still here, slowly being swallowed by the mud, trying everything to remember. They were holding a rose. There was a rose before these woods became all I knew. My fingers never touched that flower. I think it hurt them, then made them angry. That's all I can remember. I'm sinking, sinking, sinking. Everything's starting to fade. I can't claw my way out. I can't scream or cry. There's nothing left of me to do any of that. What happens when I'm buried? I'm not ready to go under. There's still more to see, even in my motionlessness. There's even more to remember.

The pelting rain starts to dull. The moonlight still shines upon me, reaching out a hand to pull me up from the earth. I so desperately want to cling on. Perhaps an old friend will pull me out. Maybe the bear will dig me out of the ground. Maybe the birds will hold on and fly me out. It's childish to think like that. This intense will to live--maybe it would have helped back then. Or am I just dreaming, hoping? I dreamed and hoped then. Those could have blossomed into something. Now... they're just something for someone like me to cling to. They won't save me. The anger is back.

Then, grief.

I can barely see the world now. If only it could just take a breath for me. It didn't that first day, but it could at least try before I leave, truly leave. I want to know how long it has been. How long this forest and I have been together. How long it took for me to slowly slip away. How long they looked for me. How long everyone's still mourning. Just a moment. That's all I want.

Before I'm truly nothing.