Circles in the Dust by Matthew Harrop Page B

that made sense. He hated that smile, missed hating it. He wanted to sit on the couch next to his father and watch the bombs going off, the bombs that were just the first of many. He wanted to ask him why he stayed behind, why he let them go out in the first place. He never had a chance.
    These thoughts came out of his empty mind, tried to take hold and fill a little space inside him, give him a little warmth, but they could not. He was too far gone. He was a vessel that could not be filled, not by any hope or confidence. He was empty, and he would stay that way. The faces in his head slipped away before they could take root.
                  As he traipsed through this valley and as far in the surrounding woods as his faint survival instinct would let him go, he uttered only a handful of words, usually in frustration. It had been so long since there had been anyone around to hear them, the value of voice had long vanished from his mind. Of course there had been a couple of instances when he shouted out for someone, anyone, to reveal themselves to him, to fill a space in the empty world, but it was so crushing to send his words out and receive nothing in return that he quickly abandoned the effort. Just saying the words acknowledged the chance that there was someone out there, and when hope of that left, there was no need to bother anymore.
                  David’s coat was heavy, the moist air clinging stubbornly to the already saturated fibers only to drip onto his tattered boots. The rain was not cold or wet, at least not in David’s mind; he was hardly sure it was even there. It could have all been in his imagination. Everything he saw and heard could exist within himself for all he really knew. Maybe this was what hell was like, walking alone through the woods, filled with pride in yourself for living so long until one day you realize that you have outlived everyone that ever meant anything to you and now you are doomed to wander aimlessly with no purpose or direction through a barren wasteland. There is very little satisfaction in anything when you are alone. No one to share things with, no one to do things for or have do things for you. No one to love. No one to hate. Even if there were, how could he hate someone if they were the only other person left? He needed people, and he hated them for that. He wished he had figured that out sooner. Everything was falling apart, leaving him behind.
                  He had been walking through the night, a fact thrust into his mind by the light of the rising sun shining suddenly and brilliantly into his eyes. He shut them tight and lifted his hands up to his face. This was unreal. There was no light left in the world but the faint glow that trickled through the clouds. He thought about going back to his cabin to sleep through the day but his feet had stopped listening to him. They were autonomous now, pressing onward of their own free will. There was nothing David could do to sway them, no entreaty pleasing enough to make them listen to his commands. He hung his head, shoulders slumped and hands once again limp at his side, and consigned himself to another tour of the valley. He should know this place like the back of his hand. His mind in the state it was, he would never make it home if it weren’t for his tree.
                  Even his tree slouched, having been bent and broken by the dense snow of last winter. It leaned precariously to one side, weighed down with lifeless appendages and many years. That tree must have been alive for countless years. It had outlived its brothers and sisters, seen eras come and go, and just now began to sag. David wondered how it had lasted on its own for so long.
                  He continued like this for a while before his head started to spin and his stomach began a chorus of somber growls. He knelt down to the water for a drink and pulled some berries out of his pocket. Whether they