The light of the silver moon falls on the water, giving it a mirror like appearance. The river is calm but ever running; gentle yet pushing forward on its winding journey. The woods are quiet. No sound is heard except that of the flowing water. Not a soul is to be found for miles. A young buck comes to this peaceful setting to quench its thirst, completely at ease as it senses no threat. It steps lightly and lowers its head gracefully to the water to drink its fill.

A sudden crash and the ebbing surface is broken, a shadowy form emerging up from the depths. The buck in its startled state races away, not looking back for an instant. If it had waited just a moment it would have seen that it had little to fear from this mysterious being, gasping for air as it falls to its knees. It remains there for a moment, sputtering and wheezing, fighting for oxygen as the water laps around its quivering form. Once normal breath returns to this creature it slowly crawls from the banks of the river, pulling its drenched body out of the ice cold water and into the light powdery snow. Once out of the river’s current it attempts to stand on its feet, but the creature’s legs are weak and wobbly and it tumbles to the ground again. After a moment’s pause it tries again, slowly, more carefully, and succeeds while still shaking uncontrollably. It is now clear that this shadowed form is indeed a human; a young man, a young, drenched, miserable man.

Beginning to shiver in his soaked clothes he hugs himself tightly and plods heavily to the nearest tree. He walks with his head down, looking as small as he possibly can. Under the age old pine tree the boy turns around to rest his weary form. Slowly he slides down its coarse trunk, sinking softly into the snow. The branches’ broken shadows hide the harrowed heartbroken visage that is his face, his sunken eyes devoid of any light they may have once held. He’s surprised that he’s still alive. Surprised, and despairing. Death would have been a welcome reprieve compared to this. Death would have meant rest. Death would have brought an end to the pain and suffering, an end to the overwhelming guilt that plagues his conscience. To die would have been a blessing, and whatever judgment awaited him as passed into the beyond would have been better than living this hell. Death meant peace.

But no, he had been cursed with life. He suddenly realized that this must be his punishment. Not to die, but to live a life that was no life, condemned to wander the world, lost and alone. No one could overlook what he had done. No one could forgive his heinous sins, not even God. So he would suffer the pain of existence without ever being allowed to pass and leave it all behind. Every waking moment he would feel the shame of his sins, the evil he’d let loose on the world. His friends, what must they think? He had betrayed them and now he was dead to them. Redemption…a beautiful ideal that was beyond his reach. And now he sat here, shivering in cold of the night, stranded in his living limbo. Abandoned. Forgotten.

He slips further and further into grief. Closing his eyes his tortured soul sends a prayer to a god he knows is no longer listening. His last shred of hope vanished like a fading dream. His head buries itself in the fold of his arms, his sopping hair collapsing around him. The silence that comes only in wilderness reigns above all, but with a moment’s pause it is possible to hear the soft sound of crying, floating away unanswered past the silver shining moon.