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[FICTION / UPDATED STORY] What We Are

 Hey Y'all, this is an edited and updated version of a story that I originally put up in April of 2025. There might be a few more of these as time goes on and I revisit some older material. I definitely won't do this to every piece; only ones I think I could have done a little better.


I went through the old woods some time ago. After returning from my time abroad, I thought it a good idea to reacquaint myself with the lands of my birth. I had traveled as far as I could from my home for my education, to rid myself of the simpleness of my upbringing, and to bring myself closer to an enlightened civility. But, even with that said, I could not pull myself away from the feelings of relish I knew I would surely encounter by simply... escaping into the forest of my fathers.

And surely these old trees agreed with me! I felt the warm welcome of their canopy o'er me as I cross over the threshold of the forests' edge. It felt strange in a pleasantly peculiar way, but I did not reject the feeling. After years of feeling out of place as a traveler, I only then realized how much I had yearned for this.

As I moved deeper and deeper into the undergrowth, the path I walked became narrower and narrower, and the spindly green fingers of the brush and branches reclaimed more and more of what was rightfully its own. It was at this time I recall a growing, unnamable thing begin to rise in me-- harder to sense, and implacable as the tide. A slight fog began to fill some part of me; I could not ken.

I moved at a swifter pace than I ought to have, looking back, I am quite amazed I didn't snap an ankle, or ran face-first into a tree. A partial clearing of this inexplicable dread came when I nearly fell into a pond, though. I was shaken from whatever pursued me, and broke into a quiet, embarrassed laugh. I took a long look, scanning the nearby environs, and... nothing. Somewhere a gentle bird song; a branch moved in a silent breeze.

Shaking my head, I then turned and looked into the pond. I've always marveled at how calming a body of water could be; a serene mirror in a chaotic world. I stared down as I knelt closer, looking at my own reflection. I saw myself as I was, but... something was amiss. I saw my messy brown hair, light gray polo, and the olive straps of my satchel. But, my face. My mouth and eyes were wide, teethe bared against my own self. I went to put my hand upon my face to assure myself, maybe I was simply unaware of my expression... for some reason. But when I realized my hand motion failed to reflect upon the still water, a skin of nigh-frozen sweat enveloped me at once, and I fell back from the damnable pool in a scramble, unable to even gaze upon it again.

Flailing to my feet, I quickly rose and turned to flee, and even in my panic I noticed the for of another from across the pond; I didn't stop to look any further, no matter what it was, and if it was simply a bewildered hiker, then I would be fine enough indeed to have them think me mad.

I moved like game through those once-welcoming woods, and I swear to you I could still see... whatever it was, that thing that wore me, out there in the distance. I exited the forest, cursing it was I did, and got back into my automobile, and started off. As I drove back into town, I slowly felt a blessed normalcy set in. My breathing slowed, and my palpitation eased.

I looked up to readjust my rearview mirror, and my heart sank as I saw myself in the roadway behind me, that bestial expression. I instinctively tried to increase my speed, to escape, forgetting the pole ahead of me, which allowed my vehicle to wrap itself around it. The last thing I recall before waking up was the contact of the wheel upon my face.

Some time has passed then. I see him all the time now. In the mirror as I get ready, in the windows of shops as I stroll by. He's part of me now, and maybe always was. I recall the simple joy I felt when I entered the woods, and I wonder what part of me really enjoyed it? Was it the part of me who grew up playing with friends and family, who loved language and history, or... a part of me that remembers something else, another time altogether. We are so removed from our natural heritage that maybe we no longer think of such things, not on the surface, but somewhere down in us, someone does. The part of us that remembers what kind of animals we are, and maybe never stopped being; always on, with fangs bared against the thing we are now; homes of concrete and steel, tamed electricity and food so plentiful it nearly chases us. We forgot it, but it never forgot us. I entered the old forest not realizing that they were no longer our domain, nor of my father, or even his. Not for a very long time now.

I stare at myself, like that, often. I wonder what the exact moment was, when we separated. Was it done intentionally, to escape ourselves? Can we go back?

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