To call them bushes would be generous, something which I’m not feeling particularly disposed to display. The forest is heavily populated with razor-sharp walls of thorns and brambles, thick to the point that I might as well be following a single path from the crash site. Not once have I seen a gap in the tortuous entwined vines, a fact that makes the feeling that I am being directed, even funnelled, somewhere all the stronger.
I tried once to climb over the natural walls that run by my sides. The attempt failed, as the previous sentence might imply, and I served only to cut open my leg, much more severely that one would think possible on mere thorns. The bleeding eventually stopped, fusing my trouser leg to the open wound so firmly that I dare not attempt to extricate the two without soaking my leg thoroughly first.
My initial attempts to keep track of distance and bearings have long gone by the wayside. Perhaps if I had been able to make my own way through the forest it might have been possible, but being coerced through this thin channel has meant that I have been unable to do so. I fear that even my best estimates are, at this point, no closer to the truth than wild conjecture. I could be thirty metres from the airplane and have no idea due to the constant spiralling and twisting path I’ve been forced to take.
Despite all this, I feel as if I am close to reaching somewhere. Wherever it may be, it cannot come soon enough. I have begun to imagine whispering during the night, as if mischievous children are watching my aborted attempts at sleep. I have always been fond of children, but their laughter is without humour. Indeed, the sounds I imagine seem to contain a level of malice and cruelty that children their age could not have accrued. Despite the fact I know my imagination is conjuring up these phantom noises to entertain my tired and beleaguered brain, I still sleep with my gun by my side. Just in case.
Know your fear,
The Visage Team
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