Life means suffering.

My body ached from the lack of everything-- sun, heat, company, food, hugs. All I knew was that I had too keep walking. Walking. Walking.

Is there such a thing as a phobia of walking?

Is it even a phobia? More like an allergy. Or a sickness.

That's right; I'm sick of walking.

I don't even know where I'm going, but always in a forest.

One foot in front of the other, following the thousands of millions of trees to nowhere, anywhere, everywhere. Looking and running and jumping. Hiding and crawling and bathing. Maybe sneaking a few tears here and there.

Why must it always be so cold? I shiver and pull the shawl around me a bit more. Maybe I'm delusional, but even summer is cold these days. Time is going backwards.

There was a sudden boom and I froze. It was real, real, really real.

Something flashed before my eyes, and I almost cried out. Suddenly I was behind a tree, trying to control my breathing, because the woods were supposed to be safe, there wasn't supposed to be anything dangerous here.

In my panic, I looked down, only to see a hole. A grave, most definitely. I bit my lip, not going near it. No one bothered to cover the hole, so the smell could be horrific.

To my surprise, a gun popped out of the hole. I stifled another scream, ducking on the side of the tree I previously though of as unsafe. I looked back at the gun only to find something else.

A man, climbing out of the hole. A man with tangled black hair and camouflage clothes and a gun.

One second he was climbing, the next he was hit in the head.

By a squirrel.