I am a ghost.
I lie next to a big rock in the middle of a tall grass field, my body still clenched in fear. I am the furthest I have ever been from home. Home. The word now means nothing as tears drown my face. I no longer have a home. It is far behind me. My home is dead, killed by that monster. I am sobbing on the ground, hidden by the tall grass. I lie on my back, hugging my tired legs, trying to forget my home. My family. But I cannot forget. They are still there, mutilated, cut in half. Soon they will rot, and the earth will take them. My strong father, caring mother, and loving brother are now cold. So am I.
My torn white clothes are stained with cold dirt. I am cold—really cold. My whole body is shaking. I am freezing. The night is cold and dark. The only light is that of the moon. I am scared. I have never been so far away from the warmth of my bed, never been so fragile. I am low, and I sink even lower. My heart is shattered into pieces, each one aching with sadness.
"Why?" I begin to question myself. Why is this happening to me? Anger starts to fill my muscles. I watched my family die. I watched. I did nothing, just stood there, like the coward I am. I watched them get killed, and all I could do was run away. I am a coward. A weak fly in a world full of giants. My mind wants to go back, to get revenge. But my body doesn't move. It only shakes from the cold of the night. I clench my teeth and scream in anger as tears pour from my eyes. I scream until my throat gives out.
Father, Mother, why didn't I hug you when I had the chance? Why didn't I tell you I was still awake? Why? I will never again feel the long, warm hugs my father gave me. Never again will my mother kiss my forehead, washing away my small worries. I will never laugh with my brother as we teased each other. They are gone, and so is the world they made for me. The world I rejected so easily.
I tear the skin on my fingers with my teeth from rage. I want to stand up, to go back, but I am too heavy. The whole world has collapsed on me. My world.
I dig my torn fingers into the dirt, clawing at the cold earth beneath me. I want to feel something other than this hollow ache. But it's useless. The weight of it all presses down on me, pinning me to the ground.
For a long time, I stay like that—frozen, shattered. My body is heavy, as if the earth itself is pulling me down, ready to swallow me whole. I don't want to move. I don't want to go on. I don't want to live in this world without them.
"Father, Mother, can you hug me one last time?"
My body finally finds the strength to stand. My legs are still shaking, my arms clenched into fists. I tilt my head up, looking at the bright full moon, its light reflecting off my tear-soaked face. It's too cold outside. I need to find shelter.
I start to move. South is where my home is. But I cannot go back. I move north, to the center. North, where all the traders I watched from the farm traveled. To the big cities. The capital. I must find shelter. Somewhere I can sleep and not freeze to death.
To go back is to die. To move forward is to live.
The tall, vast grass fields are empty, with only the chirping of bugs. I move next to the main road as dark mountains surround me in the distance, their peaks touching the bright blue and purple stars. I look down. I am tired. My limbs are numb. It is even hard for me to breathe because of the pain in my chest. My head is heavy, and my eyes are pinned to the ground, looking at the dark soil and my dragging feet. I only tilt my head from time to time to check if I'm still following the road on my right.
At last, I spot dim lights in the distance. Maybe a village or a town? It doesn't matter. I've been walking for what feels like days. The grass around me shortens as I approach the lights, turning into cultivated farm fields. I exhale the air in my lungs from relief. My eyes are half-closed. I only see the yellow light from the torches around the street. But as soon as I approach the first house, my body finally gives up, and I collapse in the field, falling into the abyss.