Once again the fog is rolling in. I can see it from atop my hill, see it heading down the never-far-off slope into the valley which I must return to, the valley that is my home and security and stability and sanity and anxiety and doubt and isolation and it.
It will freeze my veins and leave me shivering and blind and deaf and unfeeling of all but the arctic chill encasing my stuttering heart. It will caress and whisper and kiss and promise with every stab and bite and hiss and lie. It will not give up until either it receives its sacrifice or until the fog lifts once more.
I see the fog rolling in, closer and closer, slowly but with so much weight already.
I turn my head but stop halfway, the dark forest covering the rest of the hill behind me in the corner of my eye. Refuge or danger, escape or trap, I cannot say and cannot know.
Before I can decide, icy hands push me down the hill and into the path of the fog.