by Bri Eberhart

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Once a year, on a crisp autumn morning, fog stretches across the yard, disappearing into the thicket of trees surrounding my house.

The haze is alive, breathing heavily on my neck, beckoning and pulling me in deeper until I can no longer tell where it ends, and I begin.

My boot catches a fallen branch, and I stumble until my arms swing wildly, finding purchase against a trunk.

The mist dampens my skin.

I pause, resting my back against the bark, its jagged points digging through my thin sweatshirt. I press harder against it until I’m sure the wood is leaving its mark on my skin, yearning for those silly little words to come.

The ones that will make me whole again.

Every year, I offer a piece of myself to the forest. Sweat, blood, tears. Anything it wants. As long as it agrees to take me away, steal me from this place. But regrettably, it denies me entry time and time again.

But this year, it’ll be different.

I’m sure of it for no other reason than I have nothing else to lose.

I bite my lip, clenching my hands into fists as I try to contain my excitement. My heart thumps wildly against my ribs, waiting for the call.

It has to be different.

Please, please, please.

Minutes collect, black spots filling my vision. What’s taking so long? It feels like I’ve been waiting out here alone forever now. I remind myself to breathe, blowing out a puff of air, blinking back unshed tears, and rationalizing my fears. 

There’s always next time, I remind myself—next year or the year after. Someday, you’ll become one with the fog and disappear entirely, merging with the elements and rolling through places you can’t even imagine.

I take a step forward, dead leaves crunching under my gait.

The yard comes into view, and then my house, still and quiet as ever. Maybe I can tolerate this reality. Perhaps I can accept this is it for me. This is where the trail ends.

I was never meant to be immortal.

I’m as much flesh and blood as the rest of them.

Onwards and upwards, I exit the dream.

“It’s almost time,” the mist finally hums as I’m nearly free.

And just like that, I’m sucked right back into the darkness.

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© Bri Eberhart

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Bri Eberhart (she/her), the author of Strangers in Our Heads, has a collection of short stories appearing in online magazines. When she’s not reading or writing, she watches indie movies or obsessively listens to the same song on Spotify. She can also be found on Twitter and Instagram at @bri_eberhart.

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