[Página 42] Survivor's Eyes - Chris Ekral

As she emerged from her home early the next morning, I sat perfectly still and watched. She stiffened when she saw my offering of a fresh fish and a rough bunch of wildflowers that I had picked on the way there and places, very obviously, in the middle of the clearing.


Instantly, she dropped to all fours and sniffed the air around, her eyes darting this way and that like a wild animal sensing danger. I laughed to myself as I thought of those nature documentaries that I used to spend hours watching.


Now it felt like I was living a scene from one and it all seemed faintly surreal, even by the crazy standars of what my life had become.


I did nothing but watch, discreetly: caution was my reaffirmed mantra. After a sufficient time had passed, she decided that there was no immediate danger and took the fish back inside; she left the flowers where they lay, wilting in the mud.


I approached her gome stealthily, half crawling, until I could smell cooking and even hear her singing softly to herself. I was no inbelievably sick of eating fish but somehow, the fish that she was making seemed different, more appealing. I was suddenly hungry, in a number of ways, and the aroma took me drifting off into a vivid daydream where we lived together in domestic bliss, and she was cooking the fish for me.