- Just Keep Walking - 

Just keep walking.

Keep walking.

Just. Keep. Walking.

This mantra has been going through my head, since the moment I woke up.

All around me was sand. Hot, endless sand. Desert for miles and miles. Every step I took didn't seem to make a difference in the vastness of the desert around me. I couldn't remember how I got here nor where exactly I was, not even what day it was. All I know was that something inside of me, my gut or maybe my instincts, wanted me to keep walking. Was screaming at me to do so. As if something was chasing me, other than my desire for water and answers.

Staying still would mean certain death.

I didn't want to die.

It was hot. Really hot.

Sighing I ran my arm across my forehead, trying to wipe away the phantom feeling of wetness which has been following me for a while now. Liking my lips, I tried to breathe. My mouth was dry, my lips cracked; I had no more saliva in my mouth to wet my lips with. My forehead was dry as well; I was not sweating anymore. Had not for quite some time, in fact. I knew that was a bad sign.

I needed water.

Squinting through my eyes, I looked around me once more. Sand, sand and big dunes of sand. No oasis, no shadow to hide from the sun, no safety anywhere. It was only me, the desert and inevitable ticking of my clock. The clock of my arriving death.

My fingers spasmed as if gripping something. Shaking my hand to get rid of the feeling, I hitched up my backpack and continued walking. The backpack was there, laying next to me when I woke up. There was a scarf, a journal with ripped out pages along with a ballpoint pen and a few bottles of water. Most of the water bottles were empty already and the leftover water was quickly finished as well, no matter how little I tried to drink. The backpack was just another unanswered question I had.

Tugging at the scarf, which I had wrapped around my head to protect myself from the heat of the sun, little pieces of sand fell off the cloth. It clung onto my skin as well. I probably looked like a strange type of mummy, with all the sand clinging onto my body and my clothes.

God knows I felt like one.

I stumbled.

Closing my eyes, I leant forward, propping my hands up on my knees. I was exhausted. Tired, lightheaded, thirsty.

I felt like crying. Not that anything would come of it – I had no water left in my body to spill, nor would I feel better afterwards. In fact, I would probably feel more exhausted than I already was.

But I still felt like crying. I felt miserable. Doomed. Hopeless.

I didn't know how long I've been stumbling my way through the hot desert sand now, but the sun was already on its way closer to the horizon. When I woke up, it was early in the day. Humans may be able to survive up to three days without water, but they could get a heat stroke in just a few minutes. I may still be alive and walking, but that can change in a heartbeat. I knew that if I lost my conscious, I would not be waking up anymore.

It was scary, how close I was to meet death.

Just keep walking.

Just. Keep. Walking.

I stumbled again.

Clang.

I blinked perplexed and looked down. Something metallic shined under the sunlight. Slowly I leaned down, acutely aware of the spinning in my head, and picked it up.

A dagger.

I was holding a dagger in my hand.

A bloody dagger.

Startled I let it fall, taking a few stumbling steps away from the object, my hands gripping tightly at the straps of my backpack. All muscles in my body tensed – either ready to fight or to flight.

I blinked a few times, my gaze not moving from the little weapon. Trying to figure out if my mind was just messing with me again; if it was just another Fata Morgana. A few hours ago, I had a mirage – a short hope of an oasis; finally a place to drink, to quell my thirst. The relief was short lived. It was not real. But no matter how many times I closed and opened my eyes, it was still there.

There really was a dagger in front of me, in the middle of nowhere in the desert and with dark red blood smeared on it.

Gingerly I walked closer, as if taking a step too close might cause me harm. Carefully I picked it up again and inspected it.

There has got to be a reason it was laying there. The blood looked fresh, not liquidly like water anymore, but also not quite dried yet. Someone was around here.

Frantically I looked around me once more. Someone was around here. Dying or maybe even dead already.

There!

A few feet away from me, there was a piece of cloth. It was a light brown, nearly blending in with the sand around it – that, and my exhaustion, was probably the reason why I didn't notice sooner.

Gasping I stumbled closer, the sand giving way under my feet, as if wanting to keep me away from the lump beneath the sand.

Arriving at the cloth dancing with the wind, I fell on my knees, too weak to continue to stand or even to squad down. Laying the dagger down besides me (close, reachable, never too far away), I quickly began digging through the sand. The hot, scorching sand.

I let out a hiss, as my hands begin to burn, but continue nonetheless.

Finally – a body is revealed.

It's a man. A young man – early to middle twenties if I had to guess. He was pale. Too pale.

There was a wound in his chest. A gaping, red wound right over the position where his heart was.

I gasp and fall back on my butt. My backpack pressing uncomfortably against me. My heartbeat began to rise.

Either this person killed himself, thirsty and hopeless as I was, or someone else had.

Goosebumps erupted all over my skin.

My heartbeat, already fast, began jackhammering in my chest. Pounding against my rips. Seemingly wanting to run away, while I could not move.

Without noticing my muscles had tensed again and my hand was gripping the dagger tightly. As far as I know, I've never in my life held a dagger before. I haven't needed to. Now it felt like a reflex, muscle memory to hold it protectively in front of me. Backwards, to make it easier to attack. (How do I know this?)

Slowly I stood up, trying to ignore the ringing in my ear and the spinning of my head, and turned around.

There, a few feet away from me, stood ... something.

It had the figure of a slight man, but was covered head to toe in light brown clothes. Light brown like the sand surrounding us both. It almost seemed like the figure was one with our surroundings. I was not able to see its face. Nor any other skin. Or anything that might help identify the thing in front of it.

It looked like a man, but the suddenness of its arrival, the feeling inside of me told me that it wasn't.

Or maybe it was just a man. A crazy man, covered completely in the desert, trying, for whatever goddamn reason, to scare me.

I didn't know. I was exhausted.

"I don't want to fight."

I didn't know why I said it. It was true, I didn't want to fight – I didn't know how – but the person just stood there, not moving, seemingly not even to breathe.

He, it – the person crooked their head. Maybe curious? Maybe amused? Were they playing with me?

"Please," I began once more as no answer came from the figure in front of me, "I just want to get out of here."

No reaction.

I still grasped the dagger. I shifted my weight – ready to fight or flight. Even though running would probably not do a lot of good anyway; in my haste to get away I would simply slip on the sand beneath my feet.

I took a deep breath – and jumped back.

With a mixture between a screech and a growl the dark figure in front of me began to run towards me. Clearly ready for a fight. Why, I couldn't for the life of me figure out, but I knew it was ready to fight until death. Preferably until my death.

For a short moment I thought about the limp body behind me and how he really died, but quickly shoved that thought away. I had more important matters to focus on.

It was hot. Really hot.

The fight was over quicker than it began.

One second the figure was running towards me, the next I was ducking from a slash, grabbed the figure and stabbed with all my might. Desperate. Hopeless. Angry.

I felt skin and muscle give away beneath the dagger. Something wet and hot was drippling onto my hand.

As far as I know, I have never held a dagger before. Somehow, I knew how to fight. Somehow, I knew, that I managed to pierce the heart of the figure in front of me.

I blinked and the figure was gone.

I gasped and looked around.

The sun was nearing the horizon – soon it would be dark, soon it would be cold.

I was alone.

I no longer held onto the dagger and when I looked for it on the ground (Maybe I blacked out for a few seconds, minuets, hours and dropped it accidentally?), it was nowhere to be found. Nor was the figure. Not even the dead man.

I looked up and blinked.

Breathing heavily, I swallowed dryly.

I was exhausted. Tired, lightheaded, thirsty.

I blinked once more, my eyes not being able to focus properly and tugged at the light brown scarf around my head, before I set a foot forward. Then another.

Just keep walking.

Keep walking.

Just. Keep. Walking.

- The End - 

Wowee. I honestly didn't expect that to come out as dark as it did. Sorry for that, I guess. And even though I hate first person point of view, it felt right to write this prompt in that point of view. (Though please tell me, how I managed. I probably used "I" way too many times, but I didn't know how to write it differently -.-)

Anyway, what even happened? Is the unknown figure death itself? Is the figure just another Fata Morgana? Is it the dead man the first person found? Or is it perhaps the dear first person itself? Well, I'll keep that open for your imagination ;)

(No, all jokes aside - I honestly don't really know myself - this nearly 1800 words one shot basically wrote itself. So, I hope it wasn't too confusing. If it was, please let me know. If someone wants it, I can even write/try to explain what I think, what my writing means...)

The ending may seem a little abrupt, but for the life of me I couldn't quite figure out how to end it differently... Maybe I'll come back later and change it. We'll see.

Anyway, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!

Let me know what you think, I'm always open for feedback! :D