Chapter Text
Leaves crunch under Mark's boots as he stalks through the forest
The gentle hum of the woods soothe him like no other on days like this. The snow receding slowly as the winter gives way into a gentle spring.
He thumbs at some treebark, it peels off with little give. Revealing the clean wood underneath.
He's taken to carving little things into the trees out here. He's not sure why, but its a nice break for his legs. Sometimes its just a number thats on his mind, or a simple shape. Mostly its just whatever he spots on the horizon, crappy carvings of mountains and trees litter the trees around his cabin by now.
He leans back, observing the blank canvas. He thinks about those shed antlers he put over the fireplace a few weeks ago. Marks never been much of a trophy collector, but it had filled the empty space nicely, maybe a bit cliche all things considered.
Slowly he carves in a shoddy imitation of them, trying to remember the way the lines connected and branched out.
Once he's done its not much better than a toddlers attempt, more of a mess of lines than anything coherent. But it works, his hands feel less restless.
He tucks his knife away and smooths over the carving one last time. Feeling the ridges against his palm.
With his gun perched on his sack, Mark contines his trek.
The trees stretch for miles this far out. He could probably walk for days and come across nothing but the occasional rock and hill
He shouldn't stay out too late, he reminds himself. Even if he can't find any prey today he still has that elk from a few weeks ago…
With his gun bolstered on his back he scans the treeline for any sign of wildlife.
Ever since he moved out here he's become accustomed to the quiet. Days without hearing as much as another person's voice. Expect for the few times he'll call his sister on the payphone in town.
It's a better life somehow. At the very least far better than choking on Gemma's ghost back in ganz
He couldn't stay in that house, her soul was baked into it, far more than his had ever been.
With the help of Devon he had been able to sell it, some couple she knew through ricken. Not that he cared much, hungover as he was at half the meetings.
He'd found the listing for the old cabin while scrolling through an old realtors website. Impulse had guided him more than logic but by the time he had come to his sense he was a bit too far in.
All had turned out well though, he had taken well to the place,
The evenings stretched long and still, the kind of silence that presses against his skin, but doesn't suffocate.
The walls didn’t remember Gemma, didn’t judge him.
He remembers the last time they spoke, how her eyes didn’t quite look at him, the air between them thick with things left unsaid. It was like she was already gone.
It was like he was already grieving before the cops even knocked on his door.
Gemma used to love the forest, nature in general. Summers spent camping whenever they could away from the city. Camp ground echoing with her bright voice.
Now, the forest felt different. It was quieter, yes—but also colder, lonelier. Like the trees themselves mourned something lost. Maybe it was him.
He's thrown out of his thoughts as he spots a lump in a clearing ahead.
He backs away on instinct. A dead and undisturbed animal is usually never a good sign. Pulling his gun from its holster, he inches closer.
The silence hangs heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves underfoot. Mark finds himself gripping the gun tighter. Something in the air feels wrong, too clouded and tight for his liking anyway.
He freezes for a moment, heart pounding. The shape on the ground shifts slightly in front of him. Lowering the gun just a fraction, he steps closer, squinting to make out the features.
It’s not an animal.
It's a person. At least he thinks and- yeah no thats certainly a human shaped form there.
He throws a glance behind himself before cautiously moving closer.
It's a woman, or maybe a girl? He's twice her size for goodness sake
At first Mark wonders if she's dead, her frail appearance and torn up clothes certainly aren't helping.
But then he catches it, a barely perceptible whimper, her brows furrowing.
She reminds him of an injured deer, all long dangly limbs, curly reddish brown hair that reaches her shoulders..
Mark presses a finger against her pulse, feeling it jump alive. It's weak.. but its there. His hands tremble as he removes them from her, just barely brushing past her hair.
What the fuck.
He looks around to make sure this isn't some kind of movie shoot, like this was just some extremely dedicated and devoted method actress.
But noone emerges from the bushes, only the ever imposing silence of the forest echoing back.
His eyes flick back to the figure on the ground, the faintest rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing but that oppressive quiet.
Slowly, he kneels down, voice low and cautious. “Hey... can you hear me?”
No answer, only the lighest whimper leaving her far too pale lips. He looks at her for what feels like forever, she's so delicate he half believes if he blinks she'll simply drift away with the wind, running through the cracks of his fingers like runaway.
Mark knows he can't just leave her there. Regardless of who she is or where she came from she needs help, and regardless of how long he's enjoyed the relative peace out here. He's not a monster who'd leave a poor defenseless girl out here all alone.
She's light enough that he can simply haul her over his shoulder. More bone than fat really.. Her swollen ankle is thicker than her arm for God's sakes.
The weight is light, almost fragile, and he feels the urgency settle deeper in his chest.
The forest around him remains eerily silent, but Mark pushes aside the creeping unease.
Keeping a tight grip on her, Mark begins the trek back to the cabin.