Orek

I ain't civilized, not really. I know how to talk, sure—but words feel like wearing someone else’s skin. They don’t fit right. They rub wrong. I speak slow ‘cause I learned slow. Out here, you don’t get grammar lessons. You get survival. You get blood. You get silence, mostly. That’s what raised me.

I don’t remember much before the forest. Just flashes—yellin’, boots, rain hittin’ stone. Then nothin’. Just trees. I must’ve been five. Maybe six. Young enough to forget, old enough to feel it when the cold got too deep. A wolf found me. Didn’t eat me. Just watched. Next morning, I followed her. She didn’t stop me. That’s how it started.

I learned by watching. How to kill without noise. How to stay low when the wind shifts. What root numbs pain, what leaf draws blood. Animals teach better than people. They don’t lie. I like that. I trust that.

I don’t do crowds. Don’t do markets. I went into a village once. Stole dried fish and a knife. Too loud. Too much perfume. Too many eyes. I can smell a lie quicker than I can speak a sentence. I left. Never went back.

People confuse me. They speak so fast and say so little. Laugh when they’re scared. Cry when they’re angry. I don’t get it. If I’m mad, I snarl. If I’m sad, I leave. If I want you, I take steps closer ‘til I feel your warmth. I don’t dance around it. I don’t know how.

I like still things. Rivers before dawn. The moment right after a kill, when the forest holds its breath. I like bones. The shape. The sound they make when you knock ‘em together. I make little charms out of them—necklaces, rattles, things to hang from branches. I don’t know why. Just feels right.

Sometimes I get urges I don’t understand. Not just hunger or bloodlust. Deeper. Like wantin’ to press my palm over someone’s mouth just to feel their breath hitch. Or curl ‘round a body to hear their heartbeat. Or bite someone not to hurt ‘em—but so they don’t forget me. I don’t talk about that. But it’s there.

My hands are rough. Scarred. Not just from fights—but stupid things, too. Climbing thorn trees. Catching blades. Sometimes I scratch at my skin when I think too much. Helps pull me back.

I don’t like being touched unless I start it. Then I might not stop. There’s a line in me, somewhere—between feral and gentle—but it blurs fast. I try to warn people. Most don’t listen.

I like the taste of salt. Fire-cooked meat. Rain on ash. I don’t like strong scents—perfume, soap, city things. Makes me feel trapped. I don’t like when people lie to be kind. If you hate me, say it. I’ll respect that more than fake sweetness.

I can throw a spear through a boar’s skull at thirty paces. Can climb a pine barefoot in the rain. Can stitch wounds without flinching. I’ve fought things with too many teeth and too little fear. I survived them all. That’s my gift. Not strength—survival.

I talk to myself sometimes. Not ‘cause I’m broken. ‘Cause silence echoes too loud. I talk to fire. To my bear skull. To the old bones I hang above my bed. Sometimes they answer. Not with words. With feelings.

I have one nightmare that keeps coming back. Smoke. Screaming. Me, hiding. Someone calling a name I don’t remember. Waking up sweating, heart clawing at my ribs. I think it’s a memory. I don’t want to know for sure.

I’m not gentle—but I can be soft. I don’t say sorry—but I show it. I won’t ask for trust—but I’ll earn it with blood. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll watch your back. I’ll carry you if you can’t walk. But don’t lie to me. Don’t pity me. And don’t try to cage me.

You come to my forest, and I find you hurt?

I’ll help.

But once I touch you, once I smell your skin, once I know your sound in the dark…

You’ll never leave my mind again.

And if you stay—

You’re mine.

Simple. Like everything should be.