This is a submission for the constrained writing contest here: @svashta/constrained-writing-contest-26-winners-of-constrained-writing-contest-25. The theme is a journal entry style submission.
This will be the last day I write about. I'm sure of it now. A lot has happened the past few days and I haven't had the time to rest or write. Falco is gone now too. And Sarah - the last of us, my nemesis in this icy paradise before The Hunt began and all our enmity gained a single, twisted focus. Her, with her damn perpetually braided hair, her school teacher air of superiority that used to piss me off so much, splayed in the snow this morning like a snared rabbit. She looked smaller, just lying there in her coat. The giant, exuberant force that animated her so much in life had added physical presence to her and now she was just a torn thing, bleeding into the white glare.
I don't know how much longer I can run either. I'm so Gods damned tired. So far from anywhere we started from and still, somehow hunted. I don't know when the thing sleeps or what it feeds on if not just our fear, but it is relentless. His will to extinguish our lives greater than our apparent will to survive. I have barely eaten in days. Barely stopped, hiding my tracks for all the good it does. It will not be long now till I'm staring at that impassive mask like they did. Billie and Ryan and Shephard and Falco and her.
It's almost a relief. I am numb, cold and numb in this white hell. I don't know if the others begged, pleaded with it in their last moments. If they sank to their knees in the frost and cried or pissed themselves. I don't know what I will feel when that moment arrives but I sure as hell won't give that bastard thing the satisfaction. I won't plead or run. I am waiting for him.
(Image from wikimedia commons: https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Shaman%27s_mask,_Eskimo,_Bering_Strait,_Alaska,_wood,_No.1880.04.1238-Etnografiska_museet-_Stockholm,Sweden-_DSC01313.JPG)