Poison
Original artwork by Kyle Newbridge
Dearest Samantha,
Foremost, I must apologize for the tardiness of this letter. In gathering edible supplies for my stay here–for it should only be a stay–illness dealt me a terrible blow, and I have been unable to write or send anything. At the least, the extended time has taught me not to merely let these letters drift downriver; they dissolve too quickly. So I hope you received the one before. Of course, a part of me wishes I knew less about the river now.
I was watching the pooled area closely when I noticed movement beneath the thick surface. Unfortunately, I did not have any means to break through the membrane initially, so I found my way back to the desolation of Florent and salvaged some supplies; among them, the splinters of my fence proved useful. I created tools to puncture the pool and a spear to catch one of the things writhing in the fluid.
I want to classify it as a fish, but the creature is hardly passable. Its spines are like rusted kitchen knives, and its fins–the portions which have not been completely dissolved away–are hardly able to move past the utterly inflamed gills, which are cracked and chapped almost beyond recognition. There are multiple variations similar to this one, most have developed jagged and metallic exteriors, but none have reached an effective counterpoint to their environment; I don’t blame them.
I was able to extract some meager liquid from the river, but I’m not entirely sure how long I can live on it. The combination of that and the fish–which I had to dedicate an entire day to unraveling before I could boil and eat it–was sickening. For the past four weeks, I have been encamped on the bank, unable to move further than absolutely and immediately necessary. I have refrained from eating any more, but I grow desperate for a sustainable food source. Or even a singular meal.
At any rate, I am moving again. I have not yet encountered any people, though signs of life are consistent. Footprints come and leave the bank. I have followed them, but they always lead back to the river. Despite my condition, I move every day; I must catch up to an ever migrating group. However, their trails are growing more erratic, and I hope I do not arrive too late.
I will write again when I find them. Perhaps the forest people and I can find a new way out.
Love,
Tomas Cohen
