Beaten, robbed, left for dead. Naked body deep in the woods. Cold, hungry, bleeding, tired. Yet still alive. If only just barely.
How long had he been walking? How far had he come? The trees’ shadows told him he was heading west. But from where? And towards what?
A structure. A cabin perhaps. At the top of a steep hill. Maybe fifty log steps leading up to it. Could there be food? And shelter from the cold?
One step at a time. One cut and bloody foot after the other. Had to get up there.
Or death likely.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Karen Rawson.