Lilly's Stories

I am Aubree, I tell myself over and over as I have every time I wake, holding on to one last string of sanity. One last string of life. One last string of hope. I’ve frozen myself in place as a stranger even to me. I hardly know who I am, and I’ve long forgotten a world where others are concerned.

Others. What’s that word again? I can’t seem to remember it.

The only world I know is one where I stay alive. Any sense has left me long ago, leaving an emptiness in an abyss somewhere inside me.

I’m alone. Sitting on a tree branch. Before I might have said that I was thinking, but I can’t remember how to think. Or even, what thinking is. Before? What before? I can’t remember anything. I don’t know who I am, and I don’t know how I’ve somehow ended up on a stick suspended from a vertical log.

I jump down. The drop isn’t very far, only a couple of deer’s heights’ down. The landing is soft, as I had climbed one of the oldest trees in the woods—thus it was hopelessly covered with moss. I know I will be itchy later, but I can’t care less.

How do I know I’ll be itchy?

Oh, bother. Another thing I’ve forgotten. Soon I’ll be totally captive to insanity. I hope not. I know that somehow, a fluttering part of me knows there is something else out there for me, but I can’t remember or even imagine what. The only thing I’ve ever known is the dirt under my jagged nails and the taste of dandelions.

Forget that. If I want to live, then I have to find food for today. Maybe I’ll have time for a swim in the river, where tiny waterfalls erupt from it. And I need to rinse off the large cut in my arm from when the fox had fought back wildly a few wakings ago.

And I have no idea why or how I know that I need to clean the wound.

Perhaps I have what those animals have, whenever they do the same things over and over without thinking it through. Instinct, maybe? I can’t bring myself to remember, yet again.

No matter. I have things to do, so I set off, no longer wincing every time I step on a twig or a pebble. After the first few days since I can remember, my feet have grown hard and calloused, no longer bothered by harsh ground.

I pick each mushroom that smells alright and every dandelion, and I collect the berries from the bushes that I found a while ago—I don’t know how long—and have always been grateful for their food. I know I won’t go hungry, especially since I still have more of the rabbit from last night—I had been too full to finish it and had fallen asleep before I had bothered to dispose of it from any predators.

I walk back to my tree and place my findings in the little knot near the bottom, then cover it back up with a sheet of moss.

Then I’m back out in the wilderness, weaving my way through trees that have somehow become familiar to me.

I’m aware that where I am now isn’t my home, but I don’t know where my real home is. So I’m pretty much stuck in this place, and I have no wish to leave. I have no wish to run out into some place that I don’t know exists, and that might drag me so far away that I can’t get back if lost.

So I know that I am never leaving. I know that I must stay here, up until the day I die.

Death?

I have arrived at the river, and I step in. The bottoms of my jeans that I’ve had for so long are found wet but I don’t care. I never have.

The water is cool, as usual, and I run my fingers through it, brushing them on a silky stone. I don’t think I can call the river burbling, or rushing. There isn’t a word for it.

More likely there is, and I’ve forgotten it.

No hint of sadness covers me anymore. I feel as callous as my feet, but at the same time, strangely curious and lonely and desperate and longing.

I cup my hands and let them fill with water, and then quickly splash it on my face before it gets the chance to dribble between my fingers. My face must be a disgusting sight. Oh, well—no one but the animals will see it, and I don’t think they mind.

I pull up my sleeve and slosh water onto the gash as well, wincing as the not-entirely-clean water seeps in, stinging. But at least it cools my skin.

I perch myself on the bank, my feet still ankle-deep in the stream, wiggling my toes amidst the tadpoles and small fish.

I know that there is no way to content myself with saying that there is nothing out there. There’s no way to convince me. But I also know that I can not possibly leave. I don’t know if there’s anything out there.

I know nothing. And I know that I know nothing. And it scares me.

I stand up out of the river, frowning. I’ve thought about this almost every waking minute. I don’t know how much longer I can stand living with questions even about myself. I don’t know how much longer I can last alone, stranded, and on the bridge of insanity.

⎯⎯⎯

I wake up and the earth is still blanketed in the unknowns of night. I realize I’m shaking and breathing heavily, nearly falling off of my perch on the mossy tree.

A nightmare, I suppose. But I can’t remember it. Thank goodness.

I know that it’s not safe for me to get up now, but I know I have to remind myself.

“Au…Aubr…”

I fall back asleep.

⎯⎯⎯

The next time I wake it’s bright and warm out—I must have slept late.

I lay on the wide tree branch, staring up at the leaves, and beyond that, the sky. Blue and dotted with white clouds. Bright. Hopeful.

But I’m not. I can’t remember.

Even less than I could before. What is it that I always tell myself? My heart races as the fact that I’m even more alone sinks in. I’m not only alone because there’s no else here, I’m alone because I don’t know myself. I’ve been abandoned even by myself.

I take a deep breath. No, I tell myself, I’m not leaving myself stranded in the world. I’m still here.

Another deep breath and I hop out of the tree, ignoring any thoughts of doubt. Anything that might set me back from a life that I know I have to continue living.

Continue with what seems to be a routine—find food, wash, take a break, eat, sleep.

Without it, I think I’m sure to lose my mind.

I follow the routine, finding just about the same food items as before, and attempt to clean the wound that looks slightly better than yesterday.

The water is warmer today. Not at all like how I feel. I feel frigid. Frozen. Stuck. Repeating the same thing over and over until at some point it’s all over, and…

And I don’t know.

There’s suddenly a rustle and a sound that I’m not familiar with. Almost a chime. Like a bell on a collar. I have no idea how I know what a collar is, but somehow I must have saved that tidbit somewhere in the back of my brain.

I remain seated on the riverbank, motionless, adrenaline pulsing through me like it suddenly found a home in my veins.

There’s a sound that’s something like a wolf’s. I run.

I nearly slip on the rocks and crack my skull, but thankfully the river is narrow enough that when I fall I land on soil.

I dash back to my tree and scrape my knees and palms as I scamper like a chipmunk up it.

I don’t stop at my usual branch, as I’m afraid it might be too low to the earth and the wolf might see me.

I’m almost the highest branch that is still safe to support my weight when a voice calls out, “Aubree,” and other voices follow in different tones, echoing the noise.

I stay frozen on my branch, not daring to move.

I know that word, but I don’t know how.

What is it?

Aubree?

What does it mean?

It’s so familiar, and for that reason, I stay put. I don’t know what is about to emerge from the trees, and for the first time in a very long time, I’m truly afraid.

The sounds seem to get nearer and nearer, and I’m able to tell that they are not animals, which confuses me more than ever.

They sound like footsteps. Like how it sounds when I step on a branch, or walk into a small cluster of leaves in the mud.

How? Is it possible…?

“Aubree!”

And suddenly I know. I know everything. It’s all back. I have a life beyond this. I remember it all. Friends, family, a home, school, a life.

A woman steps into the light, flashlight and phone in hand, looking around frantically.

I know this woman.

I clamber down from the tree, and she jumps at the sound. I approach the woman who appears to be my mother cautiously, but it all fades after one perfect word.

How could one name be so full of hope, exhaustion, pain, and love?

Now I know. All of it is possible in a tearful, “Aubree.”