The coldness bit the skin of his uncovered arms with the ferocity of a hundred wolves as his breath made some mist with the contact with the air. The snow covered his knees like a silent tomb, slowly making its way through the many layers of the clothes. A rhythmic sound, slow yet powerful like a starving bear could be heard whenever he let the axe fall, pieces of wood falling on the snow, perfectly cut in half, showing the many years of experience he had.
He didn’t remember for how long he had been in this place. He just knows that it has been way too long since that moment. He continued cutting the wood to bring back to his hut.
Every noise the axe made whenever it met the wood, it made him think. He couldn’t remember what made him decide to stay in that place, and certainly he did not mind if he were to be discovered by someone. He simply would protect this small place that was everything he had wished.
Far, far away from everything and everyone. Society, duty, rights, freedom… he did not care for those things that were supposed to be the goal of any human, because they had been long tainted by different ideologies, and he fell pray to them and did things he didn't want to remember. Many things went through his mind, every time he cut wood, he would always think about those things. How could have he been so blind? “Only the one who does not wish to see is the one who is more blind”. He had been simply blinded. Blinded by the magnificence of the words, blinded by the refulgence of the people, blinded by the ideals… tricked by them.
Where he once saw loyalty, he now sees alienation. Where he once saw duty, now he sees manipulation. He was simply tricked. And at one point he simply realized that was not the path he wanted to follow. When did that happen? How did it even happen? He didn’t remember or perhaps he simply couldn’t accept the truth, because if he saw he would never be at peace with himself. So perhaps it was easier to simply make himself forget about it.
He was a coward. Like everyone else when you give them a choice. He preferred not to think about what led to his decision, but his decision itself. But that happens with everyone, right? The animal only fights back when it is cornered, not when it has a chance to escape. Like the deers he hunts. He simply follows the same tactics he used back then, and how can he be at fault? At this point it was muscle memory. It was the best method for him, as much as he hated to admit. They taught him well. Way too well.
Perhaps the only way for him to commit those horrendous crimes was imagining the targets as deers and… Stop. He decided to not think that way, not anymore. He already moved on from that phase. The loud sound of the axe meeting the wood it couldn’t cut made him snap back to reality. He took a deep breath as if it was the first one, as if he had been holding it. He took the wood back to his hut.
He started a fire in the chimney and he stared at the fire. The night indicated a moment of turmoil. He hated it. The worst things happen at night. And he was the first one to understand the meaning of that.
The flames were dancing avidly, red and yellow light illuminated his face and made the shadows move chaotically like his mind. That fire that maintained his life was the one who he saw engulfed many others. He could still hear the cries, the smell of burnt flesh filling his lungs… the torch in his hand, still lit, the oil slowly making its way to his hand… even if he tried to stop the many memories that lead to his final decision, that was the only one he could not suppress. It was so ingrained in his mind he couldn’t sleep. The red light only reminded him of the pools where he would walk on, with that confidence he used to have. The burning feeling of the flame only reminded him of that moment. The pain was the same, even the smell of the wood was the same as the meat…
He took his hand out of the fire, burned. He had played many times before with fire, but this time would be his last. Now he wasn’t even safe in his own hut, not when his body moved as if it had another conscience, or perhaps it was something he had been desiring ever since he started living in this place. Perhaps he needed this as a punishment. He treated the wound of his hand with some sap and some old man’s beard he had stored somewhere.
He remembered. He ended up in the forest as repentance. Every day was his repentance for every single thing he committed. Did he regret his decision? Not at all. He did not care if they called him traitor, if there was someone looking for him. He no longer cared about family nor friends, even less about the term “nation”. Those things held no meaning for him now, not when his own hands ended families and friends, and also nations.
The coldness was his punishment during the day, the fire during the night, and his own mind during all day long. Even after everything, the morning always comes, and the cycle would start again, day after day. He knew it was a matter of time. It all began with feeling the cold on his body and then deciding not to wear protection when cutting the wood, and it continued to this night with the fire. It felt so nostalgic that it even scared him how he did not realize his body moved on its own. He was not safe outside, he was no longer safe inside. Perhaps his axe one day would cut something more than wood. For now, he will try to survive for long, he hasn’t repented yet. Or maybe he is just running away.
He is a coward after all.
