But that’s alright, I got used to the feeling of boredom. It was the sheer feeling of being alone that terrified me. Loneliness wasn’t awful, no, loneliness was pure Hell. Wondering where I would sleep at night, scavenging decaying carcasses for food, that was all becoming as easy as breathing. It was finding company in literally the middle of nowhere that was the problem. I heard the scurrying of animals throughout the nights, and I would whisper “Hi” as if I expected a response, but don’t judge me; one can only talk to oneself for so long. I think when I began trying to engage in conversation with the critters that I shared a home with was when I realized I had gone mad. No, mad was an understatement. I was far past mad. What had I done? I gave up everything. My once-upon-a-time dream life was gone before my mind even had time to process anything. I was in the woods with no family, no friends, nothing. The only thing I took with me when I ran was a notepad and a pen.  I tried keeping track of the date but that went as fast as my mind. I did continue writing, though. I wrote a little every day.  I wrote about the cute little family of skunks that followed me during my nightly adventures, about the gun shots and screaming that sounded so close yet went unseen. The one thing I documented the most was how often I heard people hollering for me, bellowing my name. For a while, it was an everyday occurrence. They were searching for me, they cared. After a while I guess they gave up hope, much like I had already done, because the hollering came to a halt, the bellowing of my name went away in the wind. I was no longer searched for.