Exiled.

This is a short story I wrote my senior year of high school. The prompt was "You have been sent away forever form your home, friends, and community. Imagine a place of exile such as a foreign country, the wilderness, the sea, or space. Imagine you are there permanently and without contact with those you love."

The reason I'm most proud of it is because most of my classmates wrote things like, "Here I am on this island by myself, I have to find food, water, etc. I sure do miss my family." Each one was kinda uniform in structure and content. It might be prideful of me, but I like my creative spin.

The forest was still. The crunch of my boots against the brush seemed to be the only sound. I wrapped my scarf tighter and pulled my arms in close to my body. Winters here were always cold, and this year had no exceptions. In a matter of a week or two, chilly weather had clawed its way into eah nook and cranny in the forest.

"Including my shack," I thought bitterly. That's why I was trudging through the woods today. I needed more firewood. After carefully selecting a small tree, I took my ax and began chopping away. The ax was one of the few things they allowed me to take with me when I left. My calloused hands gripped the tool with ease now, but I remember a time when the same hands had been soft; they had snaked their way around my loved ones during our final goodbyes and had reluctantly let go.

I decided to take a break and eat the small lunch I had brought with me. I sat on the ground and munched away in the silence. Quiet days were always the hardest. They left an empty, aching feeling in my belly as if I was starving. They only reminded me of the times when I welcomed into a home. They reminded me of the jovial laughter around the kitchen table, and when my cousin and I would steal sugar cubes, and we were gently scolded by our grandmother when we were caught.

Quiet days in the forest made me long for the music and the warmth and the happiness of acceptance, but all of that was gone now.

Before I truly thought about what I was doing, I found myself trekking down a well-worn path. I soon came to stop at a tall chain-link fence with vindictive barbed wire sitting at the top. I looked at the cozy houses that were jsut on the other side.

"Maybe I could go back now. Maybe they've forgotten about what I've done," I hoped. "Maybe they've forgotten about me entirely," I feared. I stepped closer to the fence, lacing my fingers through the small openings, and once again found myself wondering if I should try to climb the fence.

Just then, I detected movement to the right. There, near one of the small homes, was a man. He was all bundled up in heavy winter clothing, but even with his bulky apparel, I could see his tense stature. He was an insider, and insiders didn't like outsiders.

Like an animal protecting its territory, he glared at me. His eyes told me to leave. "Go away," they said, "Don't think about climbing that fence. Don't think about coming home, even though that's what you've thought about every single day since you left."

"They haven't forgotten, " I realized, which somehow made me feel relieved and devastated all at once. I couldn't take it any more. His eyes were saying things that I didn't want to hear. Silently, just like the forest, I let go of the fence and shuffled back to my prison.