Little Goat Mountain This is a perfect day to die

Exhaustion nipped at his heels. It was hard to breathe. Meadow had gone off in a tizzy and he was trying so hard not to follow. He knew she needed space, but he also needed something. The pressure grew and grew, it ached. Loud panting breaths. Every whisper, every noise set his teeth on edge. He pushed his body further and further. Up the slippery slopes of the small mountain. He pressed large paws into the ice, that colored the ground.

Each step the pain grew, the pressure weighing him down. Finally, when he could barely breathe he made it to the top. Each breath was like a million tiny flags of glass tearing at his lungs, the seams.

He roared to the sky, then his body hit the ground. Knees to ice, and head to paws. And he folded like a tin can. Ears tight against his head. Too many emotions in too many days. He hadn't had sleep since his episode really and rather than help him, everyone just put him in a further tail spin and he was lost.

His nightmares would plague him. He was back there again that place. The one where his had watched those he loved die. The blood to his knees. The wounds and claws and bite marks taht marred him. The pain in his throat. He was there again and this time. He couldn't wake up. He shuddered and shook in his sleep. All that he could do was wait for it to end. He whimpered in his sleep. Faceless shadows pressing against the darkness of his eyelids.