Derek’s second night had been less miserable than his first. He had woken up from the cold several times throughout the night as the fire died down and needed to be built back up again, but still got a few hours of sleep. The lack of proper sleep would soon become a problem. The few hours he’d gotten would have done wonders for his energy levels if it hadn’t been for his lack of food, and hopefully, he’d be able to remedy that problem this morning as well.
Once it was light enough to see by, Derek dragged himself out of bed and checked that there were still some hot embers left from his fire before heading out towards the creek. Pot in hand, he made his way to the creek to get some water and check the fish trap he’d set up the previous night. After checking the trap, he was pleased to find it had caught a fish but was rather disappointed with the size of said fish. The fish was long as his hand from wrist to fingertip and trout-like, barely enough to call a snack. It was one fish more than he would’ve if he hadn’t taken the time to make the trap, so he could still consider the trap a success.
He gutted the fish right there by the creek, tossing the fish and its heart into his pot and the guts into the trap. Breakfast would be fish and wild onion soup and with some luck, the new bait would attract something bigger, or at least more numerous. The excitement washed away any early morning grogginess, leaving Derek feeling energized and hopeful. While making his way back to camp, he gathered firewood with gusto, the prospect of some proper food making the chore far less bothersome. Once he deposited the firewood, he realized he’d just grabbed the fish and had forgotten to get water, prompting him to run back to the river to fill the pot for his soup.
Running, however, proved to be a mistake. As he jumped over a fallen log, he didn’t notice the jagged bit of wood sticking up through the dirt on the other side. His right foot fell on it with all his weight, stabbing it into the sole of his foot and twisting his ankle, sending Derek sprawling on the forest floor. Pain assaulted him but was forgotten when the sound of shattering ceramics cut through the woods as his pot smashed against a nearby stone and broke.
A pit of dread settled into Derek’s stomach, and he scrambled over to the remains of his pot. The pot had broken into three parts, two smaller ones, and one larger piece. The larger one would still be usable, though more of an awkwardly shaped bowl than a pot now. Derek grabbed the broken pieces of his pot and the fish and tried to stand up, letting out a yelp before falling again as he put weight on his injured foot. Finally, noting the state of his foot, the dread that had just faded came back greater than ever. The sole of his foot was bloody from a jagged puncture. The sharp branch hadn’t gone right through his foot, but it sure as hell tried. To make matters worse, his ankle was already swelling and throbbing, likely sprained.
He realized now just how fucked he was. Derek was furious with himself for being so stupid and reckless, and for the first time since he arrived on Tercius, he was truly afraid. A dirty wound and sprained ankle could be a death sentence out here. He had nothing to clean the wound with, no clean bandages, no splint for his ankle, and no antibiotics. If his foot got infected, there was nothing he could do about it. On top of this, he’d to be constantly on the move searching for food and gathering firewood without being able to walk and having no one to help how was he going to keep himself fed, hydrated, warm? A sense of hopelessness washed over him, and he collapsed onto his back, his blank stare falling upon the canopy.
Why had he been so stupid? He knew better to go running through the woods barefoot. Even if he hadn’t hurt himself, it would’ve been a reckless waste of energy. Had he really become so out of touch with the absolute basics of not dying in the woods that he started acting like a fool? Was he just too excited to be out of that soul-crushing prison he’d called home, or was he just a fucking idiot?
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Derek wasn’t sure how long he spent lying there, trapped within those thoughts. Roling onto all fours, he picked up the pieces of his pot and the fish that had inspired this morning’s stupidity, and crawled towards the creek on all fours. He couldn’t afford to sit there and wallow in his misery. He needed water and food. There was little he could do if an infection killed him, but he could at least prevent thirst or hunger from killing him first.
The crawl was slow, uncomfortable, and humiliating. Derek spent the entire time chastising himself for his recklessness, despite knowing it did him little good. Eventually, he reached the river and filled his broken pot. Considered whether he should wash his foot in the water, he stared at his reflection in the water. The water was undoubtedly filled with infection-causing nastiness, but his foot was filthy already. So how much did it matter? In the end, it was his swollen ankle that tipped the balance. Infection was likely no matter which he chose, but the cold water would ease the swelling of his sprain, ease the pain. Derek spent the next few minutes washing his foot in the river and soaking his sprained ankle.
Once he felt he’d soaked long enough, he set about crawling back to camp, this time keeping an eye out for anything he could use as a crutch or walking stick. About halfway, Derek found a long Y-shaped stick, so he took the time to cut it to length with a shard from his pot, making it into a very basic crutch. He thought it would be enough to hobble along but quickly found it inadequate, the sprain and puncture meant he couldn’t put any weight on his injured foot at all, he’d need two crutches but then he wouldn’t be able to carry the water.
Resigning himself to his fate, he crawled the rest of the way to his camp, pleasantly surprised to find some embers were still burning from his fire. Unfortunately, he was out of firewood. With a sigh, he went crawling about, gathering what firewood he could find. He took the time to get the fire going again after his first load, then went back out for more. Everything was taking far longer than it should have, thanks to his hobbled mobility. Eventually, though, he had his water boiling and an onion stuffed fish roasting on the coals.
Finally able to wet his parched throat and fill his empty belly, Derek’s mood improved. It was still grim, but not nearly as bad as before. However, he needed to make another trip to the creek; more water was needed. He needed to bandage his foot, and that meant he had to sacrifice and sterilize part of his kilt. This meant he needed water to boil the cloth and clean the wound. The river water had washed away the worst of the mud and blood, but sterilized water would hopefully reduce the chances of it getting infected. Derek set out once again to the creek, crawling on hands and knees, gritting his teeth through the jabs of pain from his ankle every time he bumped it against something.
He made it to the creek and back; the forest darkening along with his mood as he arrived back at camp with the water. An entire day wasted because of a stupid mistake. Derek’s mood became even sourer when he found his fire had burnt out entirely this time, resulting in him having to spend the last light of the day getting it going again. He spent the rest of the evening tending to his wound before settling into sleep. It had been a shitty day, and he expected the next to be just as miserable.
Unfortunately, he was right. Derek spent the next morning fashioning some basic crutches so he could go out to check his fish trap. When he got there, he found it was empty and decided to test another spot. Derek tied the trap to his belt and set off downstream, setting up the trap at the edge of a pool closer to his camp. As he got up to head back, one of his crutches slipped out from under him, sending him tumbling onto the stony bank, resulting in some painful bruises and a worsened ankle. However, this wouldn’t be his only fall. Twice he fell while gathering firewood and once again at camp, narrowly avoiding the fire. He went to bed hungry and bruised that night, feeling more impotent and frustrated than he had in years.