Victoria's Journal

June 16th, 2020

June 16th, 2020

The shots drew the others away. Most of them sprinted into the woods, disappearing like smoke. Only two remained at the base of the tree, small, patient, noses twitching, heads c****d. Waiting. Watching. Curious.

I didn’t wait.

I dropped.

The fall was brutal. Branches tore at my arms, bark ripped at my hands and forearms. My left arm slammed against a thick branch as I twisted to land, and something inside me snapped. A sharp, hot shock shot from my shoulder down to my fingers. My left arm went useless, heavy and numb, every movement a spike of pain.

I rolled, tried to scramble upright, but the broken arm pulled me down, slowed me. One of the kids lunged. Small, sharp teeth clamped dangerously close. I swung the rifle with my right hand, bracing it awkwardly against my left. The pain shot up my body, but I squeezed the trigger. The report echoed through the trees. One fell, skull cracking against the dirt. The second froze, then hesitated, giving me just enough space to scramble to cover behind the tree.

I could barely breathe. My left arm hung at a useless angle, swelling fast. Pain throbbed with every heartbeat, sending hot, electric bolts up my shoulder. My right arm shook with adrenaline as I clutched the rifle, eyes locked on the remaining children, who sniffed, circled, and tried to find the trail of my blood.

I hated them. I hated that they were small, patient, and precise. I hated that they remembered where the food had been and where I had moved. My stomach roiled as I watched them linger, waiting for another chance.

I forced myself to calm, forced myself to plan. Survival wasn’t about rushing anymore. It was about calculation. Every movement, every breath, every second—measured.

The sun shifted. Time slipped. My left arm throbbed with every tiny motion, useless for climbing or steadying. I had one working hand and a rifle. That was all.

I swallowed the bile, gritted my teeth, and looked down at the two lingering children. They hadn’t moved since the fall. Patient, quiet, testing me. I gripped the rifle tighter. I would make it. Somehow, I would make it.

But my left arm would never forgive me for this.