Alone, as one should never be.

It was his tenth birthday, of that he was sure. Holden had remembered his excitement the night before, even finding it troublesome to achieve sleep with his mind whirling as it did. Wondering what scent of breakfast he might awake to, wondering what gifts he might be presented. Wondering what new memories he would make as the sun rose and he'd be thrust into his second decade of existence. That was not where he found himself, though. No, he didn't find himself there at all. Nor did he wake up within the comforting confines of his bed, or in his room for that matter.

November 27th was a cold, cold day.

Cold enough for his breath to formulate into a frosty mist. Cold enough for the ground underneath his fingertips to feel akin to concrete. Cold enough for his body to shiver as he sat up, surrounded by nothing but trees. He looked down, gazing upon his bare feet. Neither his shoes nor socks surrounded him. Fear hadn't even set in, for confusion had pushed its way past terror and briskly walked into Holden's mind. As any lost person does, he began to move. Voice trembling, he called out for his father, again and again, growing louder as he ventured onward. Never was he greeted with a response.

"D... Dad? Hello? Where are you, where am I? Hello?"

Nothing. Only the whistling wind embraced Holden in his newly found solitude.

It was true that on Holden's tenth birthday, his father vanished without a trace. The full truth is, however, that they had vanished from each other. As if time had been paused, Holden was transported into some unfamiliar terrain, and he could only assume it was by his father's hand. Who else would have taken him? For what purpose would he have been taken here, if not for the sake of abandonment? Such thoughts felt intrusive, but over time, Holden's incredulity towards them diminished.

"What is this... is this a test? This is a test, right Dad? I don't like this, please. Please just take me home, I'm sorry if I did something wrong, I didn't mean to! Please, Dad."

Tears soon stained his face as he continued, eyes red with distress. That morning, a thin veil of fog set in that shrouded the surrounding foliage in mystery and eeriness. Leaves and sticks crunched under his foot, splinters intruding the skin. Holden stumbled over a root and fell under the broad, shadowy shelter of a large oak. He held his foot with trembling arms and gazed upon his damaged soles. Several thin, miniature stakes had pierced him, although they were possibly removable through pinching them between his fingernails. So, he did just that. Closing his eyes and counting down from five, Holden yanked out each splinter, yelping in discomfort with each pull.

With muffled sobs, his fingers dug into the rough Earth and gathered dirt into his palms. Hours passed as he sat under that tree, arms wrapped around himself, gripping the folds of his blue pajamas. For the rest of the day, he stayed right there, hoping and praying that this was all a dream he would escape. Then, as time passed and he realized the truth, he begged that he would be found, and that he would soon be back in his father's comforting arms.

Back and forth he rocked, staring at the ground and attempting to maintain a steady breath. When night fell and the crickets began their peaceful harmony, it did little to comfort the young boy. He sank down onto his side, body shivering. Cramming his eyes shut did nothing to grant him the reprieve he so desperately desired. There he stayed in the waking world. Where he had once hoped to wake up, he now wished for anything but. So he remained, energy and hope dwindling as the sun too vanished from the horizon.

Then after hours passed, he got up once more, still alone and cold. He had wasted his birthday, a mark of existence that would never occur again. His tenth year, gone and obsolete like space dust. Now there was only him and the woods, his only warmth the clothes on his back and the blood in his body. Even in his young age, he knew that doing nothing would bring him no fortune. Nor could his misfortune reach even greater depths, according to his mind. His legs shook like strands of straw on a gusty day, yet they carried him forward all the same. On he pushed into the unknown abyss of the forest.

From his ceaseless anguish and endless walking, he derived a pattern. March ahead, call for help, and reassure himself. He convinced himself that he'd make it through this, in spite of the growling in his stomach. He convinced himself he'd find his father again, even as the arms of despair enclosed their fingers around his throat and slowly choked the air out of him. Another day passed, and it felt like no progress had been made aside from the scrapes and cuts Holden received from the various thorns and branches he'd squeeze himself past.

Hours upon hours, days upon days went by. His once blue pajamas grew dirty and worn. With every hill he'd approached, he expected to see civilization up ahead. Not once did this wish materialize. The monotonous greenery continued as far as the eye could see. Holden's feet now bled, not that it mattered. He was so cold, so exhausted, he couldn't feel them. His limbs were ghostly, moving without thought, moving without sensation.

As days turned to weeks, he had been forced to eat scraps of berries and nuts he'd found along his searches. When it rained and puddles formed, he'd cup his hands and gather water in his palms, slurping the filthy, murky substance down his throat with dissatisfaction. For that water was all he had, since his tears had long since ceased. He had no more of them to shed. His pale little face grew solemn and sunken, and soon that form was one he grew accustomed to.

It hurt, as it of course would. As it turned out, this would not be the last and only time Holden and Death locked hands and danced together. His later encounters with the Cryptids he would discover were treacherous, most definitely. They also brought him near the end, and as they had been experiences he endured in his older, more mature vessel, his heart responded differently. Later, he would go on to long for survival, and to understand himself, propelled by recognition of his mortality.

Yet he as a mere child could not enter that mindset. His chest throbbed, raw melancholy in liquid form dripping from his heart. A palpable hopelessness, one that could not be mirrored by a newfound drive or purpose. One that stood on its own, not paralleled by a sense of self preservation. Some pain does not teach lessons, for sometimes men are not capable of yet being taught. Why did he go on living? Why does anything go on living? Just because, for living's sake. There was no beauty to be found in the forest, or life for that matter.

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The world had become no more than one large casket, a tomb which Holden might or might not have been enclosed in. Whether he lived or died was purely incidental. Whether he feared or not, was of no relevance. Fear is not drive. Fear is fear. Eventually, that fear melts away into emptiness. A great void that comes after the hollowing of one who has lost the words or thoughts to properly express their current state.

The wind stung at his face like hateful wasps. The ground bit at his feet like venomous snakes. The sky and the sun beamed into his eyes with unmatched harshness. He was as much a part of nature now as anything, be it a rotting log or a blossoming flower. Who cared about whether he should or should not survive? When we reduce to dust and become of Earth, such a thing loses its meaning. So, what did he do? What did he do with the knowledge that he and his misery were as cared for by the world as the ants he crushed while blazing his trail?

He walked, evermore. Walked, slept, ate and drank when the opportunity presented itself. No longer did his mind race, for his thoughts had been evicted and replaced with a droning buzz day in, and day out.

On the Fifty-Fifth day, a little chirp rang behind his ear that awoke him from his slumber. He turned his head and, to his surprise, there was a squirrel on his shoulder, its bushy tail wrapped snugly around the back of Holden's head. He hesitantly reached over and touched it, feeling its soft fur and tracing his fingers along its body. Something living, something warm, a new constant among the madness.

On day Sixty-Seven, Holden and his squirrel arrived at the mouth of a small cave during a rainstorm. He and it took shelter under the rocky surface. Holden leaned against the wall, looking down upon his bloody, blistered hands. Dirt caked his face and arms and chest like a second layer of skin. He had long since left his pajamas behind, now stripped down to his underwear to evade onset hypothermia. Thinning would not even begin to describe the process his body underwent. A shell of his former self, Holden gazed ahead with vacant eyes. His squirrel, one he hadn't even bothered naming, chirped and gnawed on some seeds it had retrieved some time prior.

Holden's sloppy hair only offered a slight cushion against the cold, stone surface he had entered. In he breathed, and out that breath went. It was all he could do. His stomach was borderline empty, the roaring within it begging for satiation. For something to bring even the slightest of warmth and energy to his body.

His squirrel approached, resting beside him. Its tail sat still against his fingers, and he soothingly traced them along its body. Up its back and towards its head, he lightly tapped his fingertips against its fur. The contact, perhaps, was all that staved away the demon of insanity that clawed and scraped against the walls of his mind, demanding entry. The squirrel's chirps grew softer as its heartbeat slowed, its eyes closing as sleep approached. It knew not of Holden's dire situation, yet for the life of him Holden could not understand why it chose to stick with him. He knew for sure that it was no act of grace, nor an act of pity. Such a thing would imply that nature has an aspect of benevolence, and that could not be further from the truth.

Up and down, Holden's skinny chest rose and fell. He coughed sporadically, hacking out mucus and spittle as his sickness wore him down. After all, one cannot be exposed to the elements without being weathered by colds and disease. His stomach grumbled again and again, never stopping. He closed his eyes, and his stomach growled. He covered his ears, and his stomach growled. He scraped his bloodied hands against his skull, and his stomach growled.

Oh, the hunger... a torture so great, that for the first time in many moons, Holden spoke.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm so hungry. It hurts, I'm sorry..."

His once gentle fingers slowly closed around the squirrel's body. Once more it awoke, its soft chirps accompanied by the cocking of its head as it looked up at Holden in confusion.

"I didn't ask for this... this isn't my fault."

He carefully brought the squirrel closer. He looked into its eyes, into its soul. Witnessed its lack of understanding, its innocence. If he had tears left to shed, perhaps he would have. It was too late for that now. The time for self pity had long since departed.

"Nobody... nobody is out there looking for me, is there? Nobody is going to save me. Not even you..."

He closed his eyes and bit down, praying that it would be over quickly. As the chirps reverted into screams and the head of his squirrel thrashed violently in his mouth, Holden's eyes remained empty and lifeless. It wasn't enough, he had hesitated. Again and again he crunched down, not stopping even after the warm liquid began pouring into his mouth. With haste he removed the squirrel and fell to his hands and knees, hacking and heaving. No vomit could escape his lips, for there was nothing in his stomach. All that he managed to puke was air and bloody fur.

It wasn't much, but Holden found satiation that night.

Day eighty-three, Holden could no longer move. His body collapsed and he lost track of time. Up the sun came, and down it went. He had not moved from that cave, for the onslaught of rain had continued still, and leaving meant death.

Though maybe, that wouldn't have been such an awful fate.

Day eighty-six came, and with them arrived footprints. Holden's eyes flickered upward, and even that movement proved difficult. Up above him was a man, tall in stature. He looked out of place, being dressed in a fashionable black suit and wearing a matching fedora. Leaning down, he positioned his face near Holden's.

His eyes were cloudy and gray, and his left eye in particular had a long, streaking scar that ran from the eyebrow to the cheek. The man smiled, showcasing his pristine white teeth. He began speaking, but Holden couldn't quite process what he'd said in full. All he remembered with clarity was the strange man mentioning that he'd "made it as expected", and that his "results" were of "interest". Beyond that, all Holden could recall was blacking out and subsequently waking up in his bed at home. He didn't even attempt to delude himself into believing everything he'd experienced was a nightmare. He was still dirty and bruised, and that was enough proof that what he went through was very real.

The house was devoid of life, of course, and his father never did return. Holden washed himself and ate what he could. After several days of rest, he knew that he was on his own, and nothing could change that. Since then, he'd sometimes wondered how he managed to escape the forest that day. He'd at first speculated that the man he saw was in his mind, but that couldn't explain how he somehow ended up back at his home. Endless speculation, however, would not ensure his safety and security. From that day on, he knew what he'd have to do, for his own sake. Be this the product of his father's test, or some sick, twisted fate the universe had in store for him, he deemed it immaterial.

What happened, happened, it was as simple as that.

Years later, as he pondered over the previous events in his life, Holden thought of where he'd found himself now. In a new world, having met new creatures and, of course, Melony Harper. He groaned as he realized just what he was walking into. How he smiled for her, how he trusted that she wouldn't lead him astray. It was a feeling that sickened his stomach. A feeling that betrayed what he knew to be true in his heart of hearts. It was something he'd long since considered casting aside, yet here it was, floating up towards the surface against his will. It was nauseating.

"Don't think you're not on your own anymore," Holden murmured to himself. He closed his eyes and clenched his fist tightly, trying to calm his nerves. "Don't let yourself fall into that delusion, not again."