Two sets of eyes locked onto each other—one pair black and beady, the other hazel and bloodshot. Shaun stood over the rabbit, his mind racing. He had already decided to set it free once, and even now, he couldn't bring himself to kill it. But releasing it again was too risky; somehow, he had barely survived their second encounter, leaving him with a wound he couldn't afford. A third round was completely out of the question.
Finally, Shaun made up his mind. He would bring the rabbit up with him. It was trapped, unable to fight back, and if things took a turn for the worse, it could serve as a backup meal plan.
After securing the rabbit next to his belongings, Shaun began foraging. Exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but he couldn't afford to leave empty-handed. The forest was eerily quiet; no other animals were in sight—not that he'd dare fight them if there were. The unfamiliarity of the fruits and vegetation only heightened his caution. Everything here was foreign, and he couldn't risk poisoning himself. Tonight, he would go hungry.
The only real gains were some water collected from puddles and a few fallen branches from the trees. Their tough trunks promised that the branches could be useful for crafting tools.
As he finished gathering, he noticed the sky had begun to darken. Only seven hours of daylight remained, and the gashes on his palms and feet had dried, leaving brownish scars where his flesh had torn. He tied all his collected items with the rope slung over his arm and connected it to his waist. The added weight made him uneasy, but he couldn't leave anything behind.
Shaun took a deep breath and stared at his bloodied palms. The dried blood offered little comfort, only emphasizing the depth of the gashes. He knew the climb ahead would be excruciating, and his hands—his primary tools for survival—were barely functional.
Carefully, he rummaged through his supplies and found some cloth. He tore the fabric into strips, wrapping each palm as tightly as he could. The pressure sent sharp spikes of pain shooting up his arms, but it was a necessary evil. He needed the makeshift bandages to staunch the bleeding, if only temporarily. Shaun knew the cloth would soon be slick and soaked with blood, but it was better than nothing.
The moment he pulled himself up, a jolt of pain surged through his arms, fierce and immediate. His muscles, already worn and aching, screamed in protest. The rough stone bit into the thin fabric covering his palms, and he could feel the cuts reopen, blood seeping through, warm and wet.
By the time he reached the bottom of the rope, 45 agonizing minutes had crawled by. The cloth he had wrapped so carefully around his palms was now soaked through, little more than a wet rag clinging to his skin. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he could barely maintain his grip on the rope as he paused to catch his breath.
His arms were trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He paused for a moment, tying the items to the rope and cutting them free from his waist. The tautness of the line offered some relief, making the climb slightly more manageable, but it was a small comfort in the face of what lay ahead.
The rope, made of sheets, was soon stained red with his blood. By the time he finally pulled himself over the edge, the sun had nearly disappeared. He collapsed on the ground, unable to move for several minutes, the world spinning around him.
But there was no time to rest. Shaun knew he had to pull up the items he had collected before the cold night set in. His hands, torn and bleeding, could barely grip the rope, but he forced himself to continue. The weight of the branches and water seemed to mock his efforts, pulling him down with every tug. Yet, compared to the climb, this was a cakewalk—just painfully slow.
He dragged himself to one of the adjacent rooms and decided to take a bath, more out of habit than necessity. The cold water stung as it touched his wounds, but it also offered a brief moment of solace. As the dirt and blood washed away, Shaun took the time to assess the damage.
His hands were in the worst condition. The webbing between his thumb and pointer finger on both hands was completely torn. His abdomen wound, though painful, wasn't as severe as it could have been, and his feet had only lost some skin and flesh.
Shaun knew he had to act quickly. The cold would soon set in, and his injuries needed to be treated. He started a small fire with some of the branches and sat beside it with a sewing kit left by the previous owners. He folded a small sheet and stuffed it into his mouth, bracing himself for what he was about to do.
His hands trembled as he put a needle in the fire. The firelight flickered across his face, casting long shadows on the walls.
The needle pierced his skin, and Shaun bit down hard on the cloth, muffling his screams. The pain was searing, shooting up from his abdomen and radiating to the very top of his head, making his vision blur.
He threaded the needle through one side of the torn flesh, the metal glinting in the dim light as it slid beneath the surface. The sensation was sickening, like dragging a blade through raw meat. Shaun grimaced as he pulled the needle through to the other side, feeling the thread tighten and draw the jagged edges of his wound together. His hands shook, slick with sweat and blood, but he forced himself to steady them.
The stitches were far from neat—each one a crude, mangled crisscross against the wound, the thread cutting into his skin like a rough saw. He had learned quickly that the pain didn't ease with each puncture, so he opted to endure it all at once, pushing the needle through his flesh with as much speed as his trembling hands could manage. Each time the needle broke through the other side, he could feel his skin tug and strain, as if it were protesting against the forced closure.
As he pulled the thread tight, the edges of the wound puckered together, the flesh bulging around the crude sutures. His vision wavered as his body buckled with every pull of the thread, a deep, nauseating pain twisting in his gut. He slammed his free hand against the table, the sharp sting in his knuckles momentarily distracting him from the agony in his abdomen.
Blood welled up around the stitches, mingling with sweat as it dripped down his side. The needle, now slick with crimson, slipped in his grasp, but he clenched his teeth and forced it through once more, dragging the thread behind it. The final stitch was the worst—the thread caught on a piece of torn flesh, and he had to yank it free, sending a jolt of agony through his entire body.
Once he finished with his abdomen, Shaun turned to his hands. He knew this would be worse. The palms, packed with nerve endings, made every stitch feel like fire. He was lucky he'd done his abdomen first; with what was coming, he doubted he'd have had the strength or steadiness to finish that wound if he had done his hands first.
He plunged the needle into the torn flesh of his first hand, and pain shot up his arm like a lightning bolt. His vision blurred, but he kept going, pulling the thread through the ragged edges of the wound. Each stitch was a race against the mounting agony, his fingers trembling as the needle bit into already raw skin.
By the time he started on his other hand, the pain in the stitched one was unbearable. Every movement sent sharp, burning waves through his body, making the work messier, more frantic. The needle slipped often, jabbing into the tender flesh as he tried to pull the thread through. Each stitch was sloppier than the last, the thread knotting and pulling unevenly as his coordination faltered.
He worked quickly, trying to outpace the pain, but the process was grueling. The needle felt like a hot iron, searing his flesh with every pass. When the final stitch was in place, his body buckled. He gripped the table so hard with his freshly stitched hand that his fingers left indentations in the wood, his veins bulging as he tried to hold himself together.
Three hours later, it was the fifth hour of the night. The cold was beginning to seep into his bones, yet he was still sweating from the pain. His hands were trembling uncontrollably, the stitches barely holding together. The fire was almost out, reduced to a small flame the size of a candle.
Shaun forced himself to stand, staggering over to the fire pit. He kicked the ashes, trying to revive the flame, but it was no use. Desperate, he planted his feet in the embers, hoping the heat would cauterize his wounds. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, but Shaun didn't have the strength to scream anymore. The cloth in his mouth had already been bitten through.
With bloodshot eyes, Shaun bent down and scooped up a handful of ashes. He rubbed them over his hands, the coarse powder mixing with the blood, drying it just enough to give him a grip. Gritting his teeth, he reached for a still-glowing piece of coal. The heat radiated from it, but Shaun pressed on, picking it up and pressing it firmly against his abdomen. The pain was immediate and overwhelming—a white-hot agony that seemed to burn through his very soul. A final, guttural scream tore from his throat as he stumbled away from the fire pit, his body trembling from the shock.
He tried to make his way to his room, his mind desperately willing his body to move, but it was no use. Every step felt like climbing a mountain, every breath a struggle. His vision blurred, and his legs wobbled beneath him, betraying him at the worst possible moment. Finally, just as he reached the doorway, his strength gave out. His legs buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he even hit the ground.