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When William wakes up, the first thing he feels is burning. Not- not actual burning. But it’s like being struck with hot coal pokers and it hurts.
He doesn’t remember why it hurts. His minds so- fuzzy. He can’t think much.
There’s something…wet. On his fingers and his face and- he can’t open his eyes.
His eyelashes are stuck together. He- it’s sticky. It’s cold with the air- he doesn’t have a jacket and he remembers not- not bringing one.
He doesn’t have anything in his pockets. His jackets gone. He doesn’t have a hiking bag and-
Oh.
That’s why. There’s- there's panic. Because he can’t feel anything other than the pain in his- midsection- and he knows that he could’ve survived that. He shouldn’t have.
Is he stuck down here? If he- if he broke his back he’ll be here for how long it takes him to fucking pass on or whatever and- the pain.
He needs to wake up. Open his eyes. The crusted blood on his eyelashes- because it is blood, he can taste the salt in his mouth and it stings his eyes- flutters away.
He regrets opening his eyes. He could’ve died without seeing what’s in front of him and he could’ve died happy.
There’s- there’s a branch. Through his midsection. The trees in Deadwood are white, and gnarled, and grow to unbelievable lengths and sizes and- it’s through his stomach. The white bark is stained red with his fucking blood and it’s everywhere- under his nails and his tongue and his face and-
He can see underneath. The- branch- tore unevenly through him. Or when he fell it moved around and there's a hole through his gut. He can see the gore underneath, moving and sliding and holy fuck that’s his stomach.
He’d scream if he had the energy to. If every movement didn’t drive it farther into his torso.
He needs to get out of here. He’s staring down at his own blood and thinking, oh, I don’t want to die like this.
That’s weird. He did this to himself. He shouldn’t be able to back out. He doesn’t deserve that.
Deadwood wants him back. He should listen. A demon stares at him, it has blue fire in between its horns, and gives him a slow blink before dissipating into tiny wisps. They stare at him, flickering around the clearing.
The woods want him back. William doesn’t think he’ll let it take him. The cliff face above him stares down and towers above him, and he can see the stains from where he fell against the rocks.
He should stop looking at that.
So- he flexes his blood soaked fingers and grabs the branch. It hurts as it jostles the organs and the skin and he thinks he cries out before-
He pulls. The brambles and the thorns and the loose leaves and ends catch- blood bubbles up and he thinks he’s going to faint before something comes loose with a tear.
Something else does too. It uhm- got caught. In something. More specifically the coiled parts of his intestines.
It doesn’t come out fully. But seeing it tangled around the bark makes him feel sick until they slide off with a sickening squelch.
Then over his shirt. He can’t even- move. He just stares. His hands are around his abdomen now and-
It’s weird. Because it doesn’t hurt anymore. There’s static, and uncomfortableness, but he doesn’t…feel anything.
He holds his guts to his skin as he gets up. There’s no feeling in his feet and he shouldn’t be able to do that, but he does. Blood drips on the forest floor, onto the mulch and the moss and the grass and his own skin. He ignores that last part.
He takes a step. His arms jostle his stomach. He takes another step.
He knows these woods- he’s lived here and walked through them and he knows how to get home. Getting home sounds really nice right now.
The blood between his fingers and the guts try to get out, but he holds tight as every step, the motion sends more slick blood down his front.
Keep going, William.