The Don stumbled to a tree, hiding him from the glare of the boulevard. The light was blinding, garish, painful - he felt the bark of the tree pushing into his back, the exhaustion of the effort pressing him against the trunk. His breathing was shallow and labored. His chest hurt. His arms had aches and shooting pains that arced down to his knuckles. His wrists felt heavy, like weights hanging over his palms. Sharp pains in his neck made him cringe. Part of him wanted an angel to deliver him from this agony with an elixir of peace. Another part embraced the pain as a long lost friend, a reminder of life's balance due .
The pain renewed his effort to seize his goal. Confusion swirled within his sense of balance. He fell down the tree, bark scraping the soft folds of skin across his hands. Don landed on his side. The anger pushed him, as he held his head away from the ground. Waves of pain roiled through his body. The sudden shock of the currents of pain flooding his body stunned him. A whimper squeezed out past his gritted teeth. The anger gathered into a hatred for his petty physical self. "Be free", he raged to his hands, his shoulders, his arms. The rage pushed through his withered arms and he pushed through the incapability, the atrophy, the sloth and the loss. Slowly he raised himself. He pulled his leg and dragged it below his raised frame. His body shook from the effort, but he was nearly there. He pulled his knee under his hips and leaned against it. His heart was pounding - it made him swoon. He could feel the blood squeezing away from his mind. The dark expanse of nothingness pulled at him. The dulling thread of the dark shroud threatened.
Don paused, resting on his knee, lowering his head and grasped for the glow of life to return. His mind sharpened from the battle. The surge of blood returned, He could feel his heart renewed from the struggle. A vague memory of other struggles slipped past. How many times had he taken this venture? Was that gate familiar? Had he been at this tree before, hiding from the glare of death beyond? It didn’t matter. The Don dragged his foot up and pushed up and leaned against the tree. Those battles hadn’t killed him. This battle was being fought now. It was time to move forward and discover what his fate would bring.
The trees formed a line, beckoning his path to follow them. From one tree to the next he moved resolutely, pausing on occasion to gather himself for the next. He could feel the damp of night on his shoulders, seeping through his thin robe. The cool was a blessing. The strain of this escape had made him hot. The heat was going to overtake him, pull him back to earth. The cool helped keep him moving forward. A narrow street appeared past the row of trees. Beyond were more trees and small paths. Don peered intently at the landscape beyond. Beyond the path passing between the trees looked like a grove of trees. Don waited for a bit before going beyond this narrow stream of a road and pushing on into the dark mysterious forest.
He thought back to those ancient forests he had met, the small villages and herds of sheep in New forest, the dark mass of the Black Forest that opened to magical villages of ancient peoples protecting their gates from interlopers, trading cautiously with the travelers that wound their way down from the Alps. What forest is this he wondered, on the edge of blinding city of ruin.
The angry glare of its ruthlessness shone all around, casting its glare to the sky. The sky seemed to hang over it, nullifying that glare with it’s dull sky. Only here did that glare pause. The forest seemed safe and held private from the ever probing glare - the watchful hatred, the callous exposure of the harsh city. Don stepped nimbly across the flowing street and down the path. It’s dark mystery beckoned him to join its route and find his way.
The dark boughs joined above him. Faintly winking between the dark mass of tree trunks and branches were small lights gathered on a close horizon. The path Don tread on was faint almost invisible. It became less sure, the smooth paving tuning into a mass of leaves and twigs from the trees above. The forest was quiet - but Don could feel a watchfulness. This presence tuned Don's senses. His exhaustion and swimming confusion was lifting away. His attention felt sharpened and he was more awake - the drugs and torpor were draining away. He could feel his lungs filling with the forest air rejuvenating and refreshing his soul. He was drinking in this air. The sensation of being observed renewed his decayed frame with a feeling of youthful vigor long unknown.
