Two Lone Wolves (written on November of 2013)
Chapter 1: Lost
Loneliness. It was the only other being. And it seemed to suffocate the positives. The positives of even continuing to live life another day. Therefore, there was only one option: suicide. For living was no longer a resolution. No longer a gift from God. Life seemed terrible.
Was it worth living through the hardships, the crises that keep you up at night, the darkness that wants to lurk inside your manipulative mind and give you false omens ominously? With it raining with lightning partially shining the forest floor, it was virtually possible.
He laid by the large, dark grey boulder. At the top was a sharp point. An excellent and efficient place to kill yourself. Yet ironically, he didn't want to die even know his new desire for death was too close. He wanted to see the sun again, the light continuously. He wanted to see his family again in which, according to his memory, he merely and barely knew. But most of all he wanted to go home. In a house filled with human inventions. Basically, he wanted to be back in civilization. Not the forest where he was but a suburb. Not where in which trees surrounded him but where trees were in assembled yards, a neighborhood. Where his own kind lived and prospered throughout time without worries or distractions about strange noises. Where darkness was less feared and actually perhaps admired. Where he could live a safe, carefree, meaningful life. But he couldn't go there. It was out of his reach, his cold, wet, dirty hands. He was... lost. But there was a place where he could go that was much more safe, carefree, and meaningful: Heaven.
But despite that, he somehow felt the intuition to keep living. It was as if his human brain had glued the determination to work and help its organic colleagues to itself. That was the only reason why he still stood on this Earth. But soon, that determination will diminish and deteriorate with detrimental consequences.
He was alone in the forest with nobody probably within hundreds of miles away from him; he was marooned.
Lonely. Two words that seemed to be conscious.
He had a backpack next to where he laid. A brown and black single-strap camouflage backpack that was also, thankfully, waterproof.
Inside, was his water bottle, his pencil, his pencil sharpener, his drawing notebook, and his phone which, of course, had no call service.
He was located in a desolate unknown Douglas fir forest. He had no memory of how he got there. His only recent memories were when he was home a week ago. His mom had told him while he was eating cereal one morning that the family would be heading out on a small but very exciting trip to Banff National Park. They planned to fly from Vancouver in British Columbia, Canada, their home, to Calgary, Alberta where they would catch a tour plane and fly over Banff to see the spectacular scenery of the sierra during Thanksgiving week.
He and his family were visual people that loved art and nature which was why the boy brought his drawing notebook which was a college journal that he got for Christmas a year ago.
The boy's name was Michael. Michael Crest. He was thirteen-years-old. Michael was a fairly-sized kid of the seventh grade, not too fat, not too skinny. He was never bullied nor ridiculed. He was five and a half feet tall and had brown hair. He was shy yet he could totally stand up for himself. Michael was always on task and obedient. No foul mouth. Thus, the reason why he never said a bad word in his life. Unlike some people at his school who have cursing on their hourly agenda.
Life was pretty much perfect for Michael. Nothing really significant to worry about or bicker about. Canada was mostly a quiet and peaceful country. Unlike its neighbor, America, where people constantly talk and fight over football and politics. Canada at that moment seemed the best.
But that all changed when Michael mysteriously arrived at the dark forest yesterday and slept under the large tree next to a sharp boulder in that unforgettable thunderous night in which such elements still surrounded him this very morning and this very spot.
Today must have been Wednesday or the twenty-sixth of November, 2013 because yesterday was the day, as he remembered as his mom had told him, was the guessed day they would fly above Banff, Canada's oldest and most visited park among the Rocky Mountains in southwest Alberta, directly south of Jasper National Park. Thanksgiving Day was in two days. And he would miss it. Even know this Thanksgiving was technically not a Canadian holiday, but an American celebration, it was his family's second-most-favorite holiday after Christmas. His family actually came from Seattle, Washington. Due to debt, they had to move across the world's largest unprotected border to his rich grandparents' house in Vancouver in which they have lived for seven years.
Just as he began to think more about how his life once was, he stood up from the ground. The grass that was underneath him had turned light green from being deprived of sunlight. He grabbed the backpack that was still on the ground and unzipped the main opening. He took his water bottle and twisted the cap off. Then he slowly dipped the bottle downward. In his other hand, he held the cap upside-down. He poured three tiny drops of the precious, life-sustaining, clear freshwater into the small plastic cap. Finally, he moved the bottle back upward and sipped the water from the cap. To him nowadays, this novelty was a gift or treat. He was now a survivor. Just like the people he had read in books in his school library. He needn't be wasteful. Michael must nurture himself in order to survive the elements, the wilderness, and the unwanted predators such as wold caribou or worse: wolves.
He put the cap back on the bottle and put the bottle back in his backpack. Michael then put it on his back and took a deep breath. He didn't really know any ways of to survive. All he knew was from pure logic. He knew he had to stay calm and find help. The Trans-Canada Highway ran through Banff. He could get a ride from a car that would take him to his family that he knew for sure was missing him very much. But the one single problem was that he didn't know which direction to go. And even if he had a compass, it wouldn't help because he didn't know which part of Banff he was at. The highway ran through the southern half of the park. He knew that because, before he left for Calgary, he read a brochure that showed a map. He couldn't remember much of it though.
After taking his deep breath, he briskly walked in a direct his body faced, a random and probably dangerous direction. He hoped this will lead to the highway because if it wasn't, he could be wandering the forest forever like a nomad until his death.
He had never done something like this before. He was a novice at navigation. A beginner with no actual experience whatsoever. But he will have to learn. He was obliged to it. It was his obligation. His—obsession. Michael was not obtuse to the point when things were incomprehensible. Quite from that, he had an outstanding, astonishing, and astounding intelligence. But there were things that he didn't know...