章節 21: Desperate Measures (edit)
Lying sprawled on the damp, cold forest floor, Amukelo's body trembled uncontrollably, his chest heaving as he was overcome by gut-wrenching sobs. The adrenaline that had kept him alive through the fight with the werewolves had vanished, leaving behind raw fear, aching pain, and an unbearable weight of failure. His tears mingled with the dirt and blood smeared across his face, trailing down to the earth like the last remnants of his strength.
"Mom…" he croaked, his voice hoarse and broken. The word hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable. His hands clawed at the mud beneath him, fingers curling as if he could dig deep enough to bury his shame and pain. "Mom, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"
The quiet forest seemed to mock his cries, the stillness amplifying the storm within him. "I'm not strong enough," he whispered, the words choking in his throat. "I thought I could be, but I'm not. If it weren't for… luck, blind luck… I'd be dead."
His chest hitched as he sucked in shallow, shaky breaths. "I almost failed you already. I almost died like a fool." His voice cracked as despair tightened its grip on him, every word laced with self-loathing. He slammed a fist weakly against the ground, the wet earth absorbing the blow without offering him solace.
Amukelo curled into himself, the pain in his body paling in comparison to the ache of his failure. His vision blurred as fresh tears welled up, spilling over without restraint. The weight of his promise to his mother crushed him, filling him with the suffocating certainty that he was too weak to bear it.
"I'm nothing," he muttered bitterly, his voice barely audible. "Just a scared, broken fool pretending to be a warrior."
For a long moment, he lay there, his sobs gradually subsiding into quiet gasps. The stillness of the forest felt oppressive, the faint rustle of leaves and distant calls of night creatures only emphasizing his isolation. And then, from somewhere deep inside the storm of his mind, came a thought that frightened him almost as much as the fight had.
"God…" he whispered, the word tentative, like a plea spoken into an abyss. "Are You there?"
The question trembled on his lips, fragile and uncertain. His fingers dug into the wet ground, as if he needed something solid to anchor himself to. "I don't know if You're real. I don't know if You care. I don't even know if You hear me…"
His breath hitched again, but this time it wasn't just from despair—it was from the sheer vulnerability of speaking those words aloud. "But if You do… I need You. I don't have the strength for this. I'm not strong enough on my own."
His voice cracked, breaking into silence for a moment. He pressed his forehead to the cold earth, tears pooling beneath him. "Please… I don't know what to do. I don't know how to keep going. If You're there… show me. Help me."
The forest remained silent. The only sounds were his labored breaths and the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. Amukelo's shoulders sagged, his hope dimming. His fingers curled into fists against the ground, the soil cold and unyielding beneath his palms.
But then, the faintest breeze stirred the air around him. It was cool and soft, brushing against his tear-streaked face like a gentle hand. It wasn't a voice, or a sign, or anything miraculous. Yet, in that small touch of wind, something inside Amukelo shifted. The crushing weight of despair didn't lift, but it loosened—just enough for him to take a deeper breath, to feel something other than pain and failure.
His hand trembled as he wiped his face, smearing dirt and blood across his skin. His body still hurt, his wounds pulsing with every beat of his heart. But within him, a tiny spark flickered—a fragile, faint ember of determination.
"I don't know if that was You," he murmured, his voice raw and low. "I don't know if You're helping me or not."
He pushed himself upright, his body protesting every movement. He stared at his bloodied hands, then clenched them into fists. "But I'll try again. For her. For me. I'll keep trying, even if I fail again."
Amukelo rose to his feet, swaying slightly but steadying himself. The forest around him seemed less daunting, though no less dangerous. He gripped his sword tighter, the blade smeared with blood—both his own and the werewolves'. Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the faint glimmer of dawn breaking through the trees.
"I'll keep going," he said softly, his voice firm despite the tremble in it. "I'll survive. Somehow."
Amukelo's body trembled violently as he dragged himself into the shallow cave he had spotted in the dark. Every step was a battle against the searing pain in his leg and the throbbing heat in his back. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, each inhale feeling like shards of glass cutting through his chest. He collapsed against the cool stone wall, his vision blurring as exhaustion and fear gripped him in equal measure.
"I have to… I have to stop this bleeding," he muttered through clenched teeth. His voice sounded foreign in the oppressive silence of the cave, barely audible over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. His hands fumbled at his side, slick with blood, as he tried to assess the severity of his wounds. The sight of his crimson-stained tunic made his stomach churn, but he forced himself to focus. Panic would kill him faster than his injuries.
Amukelo's trembling hands gathered a few branches from the cave's mouth, remnants of the wind's unkind generosity. He reached for his dagger, but the hilt felt foreign and heavy in his grip, slick with blood and dirt. He stared at it for a moment, his vision swimming. His chest tightened, and his breathing became erratic as a horrifying thought crept into his mind.
"What if I can't do this? What if this is it?"
The question froze him, his mind spiraling into despair. His heart raced, and his hands quivered so violently that he dropped the dagger. It clattered to the ground, the sound echoing hollowly in the cave. For a moment, all he could do was stare at it, his chest heaving as he fought the overwhelming urge to give up.
"No," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I can't… I won't."
With a shaky inhale, he forced himself to pick up the dagger and began scraping it against the jagged stone walls, igniting small sparks. His movements were clumsy, the exhaustion and pain making it nearly impossible to maintain steady control. Minutes stretched into eternity as he worked, the cold air biting at his skin, each failed attempt gnawing at the edges of his fragile determination.
Finally, a spark caught on the dry bark he had scraped from the branches. The small flicker of flame was so faint it seemed almost unreal. He cupped his hands around it, shielding it from the slightest breeze, coaxing it to life. When the fire finally took hold, the warmth and light filled the small space, casting dancing shadows on the cave walls.
But the fire was only the first step. Amukelo looked down at his torn tunic and the deep gash in his leg, blood seeping steadily from the wound. His chest tightened as his gaze shifted to the glowing coals at the edge of the fire.
"I can't do this," he muttered, his voice shaking. The idea of pressing heat to his flesh was almost too much to bear. His hands trembled as he reached for a flat stone, dragging it closer to the fire. "There's no other way."
The heat of the fire made his face flush as he positioned the stone among the embers. He watched, paralyzed by dread, as it began to glow faintly. His breathing quickened, and his vision blurred with tears. The cave seemed to close in on him, the walls pressing against his mind.
"Mom," he whispered, his voice breaking. "What would you tell me to do? How would you make me strong enough?"
Tears streamed down his face as he clenched his fists, forcing himself to grip the hot stone with a strip of fabric he had torn from his tunic. The heat radiated through the cloth, scorching his fingers. He positioned the glowing rock above his leg, the sight of it making his stomach churn.
"I can't," he gasped, shaking his head violently. "I can't."
But as the blood continued to flow, soaking into the cold earth beneath him, he realized he had no choice. A strangled cry escaped his lips as he pressed the stone to his wound.
The pain was immediate and excruciating, a searing agony that consumed every thought and sensation. Amukelo's scream tore through the silence, raw and primal, reverberating off the cave walls. He bit down hard on his arm to stifle the sound, his teeth sinking into his flesh as his body convulsed from the shock.
The smell of burning flesh filled the cave, turning his stomach as his vision darkened at the edges. He pulled the stone away, his chest heaving as the pain continued to radiate from the cauterized wound. Tears streamed down his face unchecked, mingling with the sweat and blood that coated his skin.
His back was next. The thought sent a fresh wave of terror crashing over him, but the bleeding wouldn't stop on its own. With a hollow whimper, Amukelo adjusted the stone in the fire, letting it heat again. His hands shook uncontrollably as he positioned himself, leaning forward to expose his torn back.
"This is it," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "This is all I can do."
He pressed his back against the rock, and the world exploded into agony. His vision went white, and his body arched involuntarily, his muscles locking as a strangled scream tore from his throat. Every nerve felt as if it were on fire, the heat searing through his flesh and into his soul. He bit down on the sleeve of his tunic, tears streaming freely as he endured the unbearable.
When it was over, he collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. His entire body trembled, and his mind teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. The fire crackled softly beside him, its warmth a cruel mockery of the pain it had caused.
"I'm alive," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "God… I'm alive."
Amukelo lay there for what felt like hours, the firelight flickering across his bloodied, tear-streaked face. The pain was relentless, but so was he. As his breathing steadied, he forced himself to sit up and tend to the rest of his wounds. The fight wasn't over—not against the forest, the beasts, or himself.
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
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-- 推薦票