The Forget-Me-Not Man

Written for writing prompt #6


Dark splotches everywhere. Adam staggered through the trail, vision blurring, conscience fading. A rustle above him forced a resource-draining raise of his head, but the noise passed as quickly as it had come. Probably just an owl. The tendrils of night crept their way inwards like a blanket. But this blanket was barbed.

Sharp pain once more seared through Adam’s vision, and he staggered once, twice, nearly righting himself before hard wood became his buffer.

Bleeding, weeping, a sorry figure indeed. The night took no notice of the pitiful wreck huddled under the sickly tree. It began to gather the last vestiges of the daylight and scatter them wherever it landed, sending the warm glow of sun fleeing for its life over the horizon.

Night’s accomplice was also present, the chilling cold creeping in as Adam shivered. At first the shakes had been down to the steady flow and trickle of his lifeforce stranding him, but now they signified something even more deadly than blood.

Time was up.

A warm-cold glow seemed to envelop Adam, and he fought back bloodied tears to glance up, crying with relief and regret, retribution and revenge, realisation and resignation. And then he was gone.

A sickly tree grew over the dark trail, and if you had been passing by you probably wouldn’t have noticed the indentation in the ground below, as if just moments ago a soul had rested there. You probably wouldn’t notice the way the tree was bent ever so slightly crooked, as if it had just taken a slight knock. And even the most astute amongst you probably wouldn’t have noticed the blood trail, leading from over the hill behind, ending in a minute pool just away from the path.

Dark splotches everywhere.