text: Darsha blinked twice and took a moment to admire her surroundings. She had summited this hill a hundred times before and would never again return. The wind stroked her cheek and brought the beautiful flowers into her nose. She took a long breath in, enjoying the infusion of grass and wild flowers. It felt like a lifetime since the trek up the hill, yet in reality she knew she had only just stepped above the crest. Or had she? She coughed as she remembered to breathe. She took a moment to sit down on the grassy verge of the hill. The grass was moist as she placed her palm down but she figured she could survive a soggy bum for the next hour. Darsha sat staring over the valley. She pictured the beautiful pallet of greens and browns. The leaves falling from the trees and the way the sun would glisten off the droplets on the grass. Darsha loved the view from this hill; and today was no different, this was her favourite childhood chill-out spot and she would make the most of it. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and requested her phone's voice assistant to play her favourite track. She focused on the way the drums built up to that first powerful line of singing. She tapped her foot along to the beat mouthing the words she remembered. ‘Ugh! Smelly cows!’ she sighed, deciding now would be a good time to venture out towards the treeline. Darsha picked up herself up stumbling slightly as blood returned to her legs. She cautiously made her way down the hill towards the woods, minding not to slip on the wet slope. As she neared the edge of the forest, and the darkness of the forest began to darken her vision, Darsha allowed herself a moment to run through the field. She was feeling good today and nothing could bring her down. She felt the wind singing through her ears and she felt unstoppable. A loud noise ahead brought her to a sudden halt, almost falling forwards as she tried to stop on the slippery grass. She was momentarily startled by the sound before reassuring herself of the distinctive flutter of wings beating against the leaves and branches. Must have been a pigeon. Birds aren’t scary, usually. She remembered a film she had seen one time at a friend’s house. Something about aggressive birds. She could hardly remember the details, yet felt saddened nonetheless. She missed the way she used to be so carefree. She loved watching films with her friends, but that felt like some previous life now. If this was her reincarnation then she figured she needed a new religion. Her destination grew close, as she made her way towards the growing darkness. Before entering she glanced back at the grey sky. Nothing much to see at any rate. The leaves crunched under her feet as she stepped through the tree archways. She walked slow at first, lifting one leg, then the other, over the bed of twigs and roots, taking great care not to overbalance. The leaves crunched and the ground underneath was soft, she thought to herself, noting the contrast. Every little detail was important to her now; ‘an epiphany will do that to you’ she muttered, rolling her eyes. She heard the clattering of branches in the treetops. Although she couldn’t see it, she imagined it was a squirrel. THUMP! Darsha hit the ground with a squelchy bang. She should have noticed that tree root. Why the hell didn’t she notice it?! She had told herself she wouldn’t fall today. Got to pay more attention. She calmed herself down as she put her hand beside her chest to lift herself up. She was expecting to feel mud or leaves, but was surprised to wrap her fingers over something with more clearly defined edges, something man-made. The object was cold to the touch, partially covered by leaves. She brushed away the leaves and noticed there was a second material on the object, less cold and more grainy. She felt the intricate engraving on the side of the object. Antlers? Like a deer or something? She lifted up the metal object and immediately threw it away. CRACK! She reeled in fear from the ear piercing sound, throwing her arms over her head and curling her knees to her chest. Her ears ringing, her heart pounding. She lay shivering on the ground for some time. At first she dare not move, but slowly she began to uncurl her limbs one by one. Once comfortable, she lay motionless on the ground. When she decided to try to push herself up, she was met with the most horrible pain in her abdomen. She clutched at it with her right hand, pressing against the painful area. There was no way she could bring herself to stand right now. She managed to move herself into an upright position and shuffled herself to the damn tree she tripped over, leaning against it for support. Now was not the time for a debate about what was and was not irony, but she couldn’t help but get drawn to the thought that this tree which had put her in such a state was now supporting her. She allowed herself this momentary distraction from the pain. She wiped the sweat from her brow with her hand and realised her hand was sticky. She reached out with her left hand to touch her palm. Sticky. Her throat filled with vomit as the realisation dawned on her. She swallowed and began to take deep breaths. She finally worked up the courage to reach her hand down to inspect the pain. She carefully reached out with outstretched fingers, peeling her shirt away from her stomach enough to reach under. She found the bullet wound where she expected it to be. Darsha began to cry. Tears ran down her face and dripped off her nose. The convulsions pulled at her abdomen and hurt her each time. But she wasn’t crying because of the pain, she had learned to block out a lot of pain in the previous few weeks, but rather because she didn’t know what was going to happen. Her thoughts raced from family back in India to friends to her career to those terrible medical videos she had seen in school. She could picture at least 2 first aid boxes and their exact locations and contents. None were in this forest. Darsha removed her top, whelping as she lifted her arms above her head, and began to tear it. She wrapped the makeshift bandage around her waist and tied it as tight as she dare, wincing slightly as the cloth laid upon her wound. Next step she thought, still shaking slightly as she regained composure, was to get help. She pulled her phone from her pocket and spoke to her voice assistant. She requested 999 but heard no confirmation reply. She tried again and still nothing. She cursed loudly and then realised she couldn’t even hear her own voice. The gunshot had deafened her for now. Great, another problem, she sighed. ‘HELP!’ She cried; or at least she thought she did. Her hearing had returned enough to hear the pathetic attempt at shouting. Was she shouting loud enough? It was hard to tell when she didn’t know if her hearing was back to normal. How loud does one need to shout to get help in the middle of the woods? The effects of the gunshot wound were getting to her. She slipped in and out of conscious, not knowing how long she had been sat there. 5 minutes? An hour? Longer? Her stomach growled. She groaned. How much longer did she have? Darsha awoke from a period of unconsciousness, eyes wide with equal parts fear and excitement. She suddenly collapsed onto hands and knees and began to crawl along the undergrowth, pushing aside leaves and fallen branches. The longer she crawled the more frantic her movements became, throwing aside large piles of debris in one sweep of her arm. She ignored the pain this was causing her as she knew it would be worth it. Her breathing by this point was out of control, she stole panicked breaths in between arm swings, knowing time was short. Finally, after some unknown time she stopped. Her hand resting on her prize, she began to regain control of her breathing. She was shaking and her breaths were short, but now save could relax. Her fate was in her hands. She picked up the gun. Her hands moved across the cold metal and carved handle, caressing the edges and balancing the weight. She continued to run her fingers across the gun before finally lifting it up and pointing it into the distance. She would never hit anything, but she knew she didn’t need to aim at her intended target. She lowered the hammer with her thumb, preparing it to fire at a moment’s notice. She rubbed the gun against her cheek for a moment, then quickly shoved the barrel into her temple. Darsha sat like this for a long time. She was losing track of time. Everything seemed to last so long. Her breathing slowed, her body tensed and her hand wobbled as she pushed the gun harder into her head. Darsha fired the gun as she threw her arm into the air, screaming at the top of her voice. She put all her effort into screaming, yet heard only the faintest, most pathetic squeal. Darsha laid the gun to rest on her leg, continuing to grip the handle as tight as she could. She laughed as her thoughts came to evaluate her so-called family. The loving parents who gave all their love and attention to their son, expecting her to marry into some rich family. The father who told her she could never achieve her dreams and that moving away wouldn’t bring them any closer. The woman who should have been her mother died long before she could ruin Darsha's life any further. The brother who had disowned her and vowed never to speak to her again. This was where she so clumsily threw the word ‘family’. She had spoken once each to her father and brother in the last 3 years. And they had shown no sympathy for her condition. She had asked for help with medical bills, knowing these men could fill a swimming pool with their wealth. They had brushed her aside once again, doubting her and questioning, assuming she was tricking them. A smug smile slithered across her face as she considered how she would never have to see their faces again. Darsha couldn’t name a single friend to even judge. She tried and tried; perhaps if she could think of just one then maybe she would be safe. But the names floating in her head crashed to the ground one by one. They had all abandoned her. Nobody wants a cripple friend. Darsha winced in pain, clutching her stomach, her breathing momentarily paused. ‘Cripple’ she uttered through the pain. The only person Darsha could even imagine would care about her was her boss. Or at least, the man who used to be her boss. She had always liked him. She had even kissed him at last year’s Christmas party. She knew he had lied about not crying when he told her he had no choice but to let her go. She remembered his words clearly ‘your condition is going to make it impossible for you to work here any longer’. A liability; that’s how people saw her. Darsha slid the gun across her leg to point it at the ground beside her. She poked it into the dirt and began to drag it along the floor, curving and twisting it through the mud. When finished, she had written but one word: SORRY. She considered her own condition, the way the doctors had given up all hope. She smashed her fist against the ground. Why should she suffer? What had she done wrong? How could she have been so stupid? It was always meant to be. She should never have been happy, never had a chance to try. This was her fate, and she had no right to deny the Gods their plans. Darsha was sat in a beautiful forest in her favourite season of the year. She saw no beauty. Clearly it was not for her eyes to enjoy. Darsha’s hand began to work its way towards her wound. With a mind of its own, her fingers uncurled, and she began to probe and poke at the bandage. She pressed harder, harder; testing her resolve. Darsha was long past needing to vocalise her discomfort. She was ready. Darsha proposed herself an ultimatum: read the word she had scratched into the ground and maybe she could escape. She moved her head from side to side, scanning the floor around her. She couldn’t find it, so she allowed herself to run her hand along the ground carefully so as not to damage the writing. Once found, Darsha began to focus on the word, tilting her head as if that might help. But no matter how hard she tried, she squinted and leaned in close, putting much pressure on her wound, she could not make out the letters. She couldn’t even read her farewell to the world. There was no use denying the truth; she was blind, and dying in a forest with no hope of help. Her ears still ringing, as if something ethereal was calling her. Pounding headache, burning eyes, she must look like death. The metallic tang of blood clung to the back of her throat. The taste of vomit still lingered, unwelcome. She coughed, wiping the bloody spit from her lips. She was out of time. Darsha's mind was made up. Tears rolled down her face as she pressed the cold barrel to her head. Her hand was shaking uncontrollably. One last breath. Darsha screwed up her eyes and focused on her next reincarnation.