Lost Creek Hollow i feel them creep inside

the days are a blur of patrols and filling food caches.

nights, a blur of squirming children.

and in the hours in between: dark webbings of thoughts; spidering out hungrily.

thoughts that he was little more than a skilled jester; playing whatever part suited him best at the time.

husband. father. subordinate.

none of which felt like him despite how much he craved it. craved it to be so —

those thoughts are banished; storm clouds darkening ingram’s expression as he forces himself to focus upon the simple action of walking and nothing else.