The undergrowth thins and I stumble into a clearing. I’m soaked to the skin, wet jeans cold and clammy. My naked arms, taped together behind my back, itch from their encounters with briars and nettles. A voice shouts somewhere behind me, answered by another. I stumble forwards, tripping on a root, landing heavily on my side at the edge of a dark pool. Half of me wants to just lie here and wait. The other half knows it would be a fatal mistake. I struggle to my knees, then up onto my feet and set off back into the woods.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words
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