Meadowlark Prairie only, lonely, hidden breath beneath the floor

@Qiao :eyes:

He gnawed at the bone between his forepaws, chewing the last stringy bits of meat from the first meal he'd had in who knows how long and thinking: I'm going to die.
And he was terrified, honestly. Alarian had always imagined death as being a sudden and messy affair; a burst of illness, a great bloody clash, a tumble, a hunt gone awry. He'd never thought it would come creeping instead, drawing up behind him in secret until it lingered so near he could feel its breath on his neck. A life alone made it easier to dismiss the gaps in his memory, after all. He'd jerk back to reality with bleary eyes and think oh, I spaced out again, or damn, I forgot what I was doing, and no one was there to point out that all his caches turned to rot and his dens sat stale.
He knew now, of course. Knowing made it worse; knowing was a horror, because it made no difference and gave him no more control over it. Instead he lived in a constant state of near-panic, chest always tight with the anxiety of knowing that at some point, he would blink and lose all sense of self. Reality would shift, and suddenly he'd have new aches and scrapes, dirty paws, matted fur. He would let himself cry for a minute, and then he would find a river and wash himself and set about catching a meal. Sometimes that was all he had time for.
He was going to die, and no one would be around to know it. Not even him.