What Am I?
1055 Words
Chapter Five
Darkness pressed in from all sides, thick and breathless.
Moses opened his eyes, but nothing changed.
He tried to sit up. The ground met him immediately, damp and cold against his palms. The smell came next, wet earth, bark split open by age, something metallic beneath it. His heart began to race, though his body felt strangely calm, as if it had already decided panic was useless.
“Mother?” His voice fell flat, swallowed by the dark.
No echo, no walls. Just space.
A sound stirred, leaves brushing together, slow and deliberate. Wind, but not wild. It moved with intention, circling him. When light finally seeped in, it did not arrive as dawn but as memory. Shadows pulled back to reveal trees, tall, ancient, their trunks scarred with old claw marks half-swallowed by moss.
A forest.
Worse not unfamiliar
Moses stood. The ground yielded under his feet, soft as though it had been waiting. Paths opened between roots without his choosing. Branches shifted aside before brushing his shoulders. Somewhere deep in his chest, something loosened, like a knot he hadn’t known he was carrying.
He took a step forward. Then another.
The forest breathed with him.
“You walk like you belong here.” The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, low and even. It did not surprise him. That frightened him more than anything.
“I don’t,” Moses said quickly. “I’m dreaming.”
A pause. Not disbelief. Consideration.
“Is that what they told you?”
The word pressed against his ribs. Moses shook his head. “My name is Moses. I live at the orphanage. Mother Loveth... she ...” His voice faltered. He swallowed and forced the words out. “She says I’m a good boy.”
The forest grew still.
Leaves stopped trembling. Wind held its breath.
“A good boy,” the voice repeated, gently, as if tasting the phrase. “Does your body agree to be a boy?”
Pain flared suddenly, sharp, disorienting. Moses gasped and dropped to one knee. His hands hit the ground again, fingers splaying wide, digging into soil on instinct. His nails scraped bark-hidden stone, harder than they should have been.
“No,” he whispered. “Stop.”
The ground felt right beneath him. That was the problem.
He pushed himself upright, swaying. His balance shifted oddly, weight settling lower, spine aligning in a way that made standing feel unnatural. His shoulders hunched without permission. His breathing deepened, slower, fuller.
“You remember the shape,” the voice said. “Even if you deny the name.”
“I don’t know you,” Moses said, though his throat burned as if lying took effort. “You’re not real.”
A figure stepped forward between the trees.
It was tall, wrapped in shadow, its outline blurred like heat rising from stone. When it moved, the forest leaned closer, listening. Two eyes glowed red not violent, not enraged. Simply present.
Watching.
The figure crouched until they were eye level.
“You feel it when you run,” it said. “When your heart outpaces your fear. When your hands ache to touch the ground. When the moon pulls and you pretend it’s just light.”
Moses shook his head hard. “I pray,” he said. “I say the words. I wear the necklace. I’m not...”
“Human?” the figure offered, tilting its head.
The word struck like a dropped plate. Moses’s chest tightened. His breath hitched, came out rougher than it went in. He backed away, but his foot caught on a root and he fell forward.
This time, he didn’t catch himself. He landed on all fours.
The humiliation burned hotter than fear. His arms held his weight easily too easily. His back curved, muscles aligning in a way that felt natural, powerful. The ground no longer chilled him. He could feel vibrations through it tiny movements, distant life, the pulse of the forest itself.
“No,” he whispered, though his fingers flexed eagerly. “I’m a boy.”
The figure’s eyes softened.
“You are a child,” it said. “But not theirs.”
Something twisted inside Moses, sharp and grieving. Images flickered behind his eyes firelight, running, blood on fur that was not fur, a woman’s voice breaking as she whispered forgiveness. His head throbbed. He pressed his palms into the dirt, breathing hard.
“Who are you?” he asked.
The figure straightened. For a moment, its shape aligned perfectly with his reflection in a pool of dark water at their feet.
“I am what you will be,” it said. “And what you were meant to forget.”
The forest surged forward, wind roaring through branches. Moses cried out as the world folded in on itself and he woke screaming.
His room snapped into place violently. The narrow bed. The cracked ceiling. The smell of soap and old wood. His body was tangled in sheets, heart hammering. For a moment, relief washed through him.
Then he saw the floor.
Mud streaked across the tiles in long, dragging lines. The bedside table lay overturned. The wardrobe door hung open, split down the center, wood gouged deep as if raked by claws.
Moses stared at his hands.They were clean and small, human.
His chest rose and fell too fast. He pressed his feet to the floor. Cold and real
The necklace lay on the bed beside him, silver chain twisted, the wolf’s head biting into the mattress.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Moses?” Mother Loveth’s voice soft, worried. “Are you alright?”
He swallowed. His throat hurt.
As the doorknob turned, one thought surfaced, heavy and undeniable, settling into him like truth finally accepted:
The voice hadn’t asked him to believe.It had remembered him.
Mother Loveth stepped inside, eyes widening at the damage. Her gaze flicked from the room to him, then softened with relief as she crossed herself.
“Moses,” she said, kneeling in front of him. “What happened?”
He looked at her pretty familiar and kind hands. But the forest lingered in his bones.
He opened his mouth, then hesitated.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper.
“You’re not really my mother, are you?”
- Writer
