The man rolled up his sleeve, gazing down at his pale, flaky white skin. The tattered fabric tensed under his hand, threatening to rip right off. He took a deep breath. He knew exactly what he was doing.

As the stranger poured the concoction of essence he boiled on the stove into a needle, after purifying it, of course, he had a nagging thought at the back of his mind that at least he can do this without judgement. He bit on the inside of his scarf, chewing it as he tried to push it away.

His wife’s words still rang in his head. That fateful argument on that all too fateful day, a day he could’ve spent committing his sad life to mind before venturing deep into the forest to never return. He’d come to terms with it already, but a dark pit of guilt still resided in his chest.

What would she say? Would she call his work to check where he is? Will she ask the authorities to search for her junkie of a husband? Will she shed tears for him when he doesn’t return? He shut his eyes tight, and hoped to any god who’d listen she would forget him as fast as possible.

The needle faced him when he opened his eyes challengingly. If there was any hope left, it was lost the moment the doctor injected him with the contents of the forest. He might as well use it to his advantage.

With a gleam of the needle, the stranger plunged it into the skin of his forearm. White hot pain flashed through him, and he could’ve sworn he staggered back. He felt the crash of something against his back, whether it was him making contact with the floor or the wall or anything else, and he blacked out.