The sun was right overhead when Leroy returned to his cottage home. He'd spent the time after he had killed Him, not only looting His home, but scouring the forest separating His meadow from Leroy's tallgrass basin for those little red berries.

He found some, and named them 'lightberries', in accordance with their soft taste. He'd found an abundance of them growing in some deeper shade, and picked them until his finger joints hurt and his satchel was full.

Taking a handful out of his satchel and placing them in a bowl on his countertop, he also removed the satchel and put it down. For the moment, he was separating the berries from his other finds.

He took the book he found out of the pouch, the cover covered in juices but the pages dry, and slowly picked out the berries until only the leaves, twigs, or whatever else that had managed to slip its way into his satchel was left. He found that the string of colorful beads had been drenched, however, in the lightberries' juices.

He took them outside, where he had places setup to dry things, and placed the beads in the sunlight. Accompanying the wooden nodules were fish, fruits, and some firewood he intended to save for the winter, whenever that came.

Then, he wandered back inside, and took his satchel out there too. It was also covered in juice, so he removed what it had left inside it and placed them in the sun too. some soggy seaweed rope and that terrible, wonderful dagger, now rested beside the string.

Leroy returned inside, picking at some of the berries he'd foraged, and while doing so, he rediscovered his painted hands and arms. Nothing came to him, no emotion, no bias of fear, just the memory of the incident and the mark it left.

Forget it, Leroy thought, he should go wash this off. He stepped outside once more. There, in the sky, the sun beat down overhead; a little past noon. Leroy'd have time. He left his cottage home, and started towards the ocean in front of him. Leroy had so many memories here, and the frigid water brought back some happier memories.

Learning to swim, to a degree. And foraging for crustaceans and hiding bugs under the sand. Then, his memories of waking up there after death blurred together, forming one memory that he could more easily put out of his mind.

For a few minutes he stood in the ankle deep seawater, admiring the sparkling sand under the distorted blueish glimmer of the water itself. He stooped down, wetting his long-legged pants, and dipped his arms into the water.

In the water, the blood seemed not to dissolve off, but deflect the water from breaking the glaze. But, with a little scrubbing, it came off slowly. The sharp saltwater ate the film off and let the flakes float away with the tide, or sink to the bottom sands.

It felt good, after this terribly eventful day, a wonderful and simultaneously terrible day. The ocean called to him, and he smiled back, merry to report he'd accomplished his goal to it, sick pride in his achievement.

Why was Leroy making such a deal about killing Him anyways? Revenge, he thought. It was only some much needed revenge, not like he couldn't come back from it.

Speaking under his breath, Leroy said, "It was right. I was right.", as he scrubbed at the stinging skin. The frigid, almost acidic water stung at his raw hands, further digging into the glaze with his nails.

His breath hastened as he did so, but the pain was distant, back of his head, couldn't claw its way forward even if it it

How could he not care, whilst feeling so much of this empty guilt, this damn two-faced emotion. He started talking to himself again.

"He had it coming.. He did. I was right, I was right."

Sand got under Leroy's nails, then under his skin. Leroy couldn't tell whether the red he saw was his own blood, or the glaze left on his skin. Forward harder, more. He could still see red, there was still His glazed blood on Leroy's skin.

By the time he stopped, his breath was quick and shallow, and Leroy was kneeling in the shallow tides. When he took his hands out of the water, he found they were still bloody, but now for another reason.

He'd torn into his own skin, and now that Leroy noticed it, it hurt. It really hurt, stinging like a hornet's sting with every individual particle of sand. It hurt more than being stabbed by Him, in part because this time, he caused it himself.

Leroy uneasily got to his legs, and started towards his cottage home, where he fell down once inside. The redness on his forearm smeared across the rough wooden floor.

Hazy movements and an airy head, Leroy was hither and zither, and all across the tiny place, desperately looking for something to bind his irritated, gushing skin.

Now, only now did the full width of the pain dawn on him. It was a bad idea, he should have stopped scrubbing at it within the first few seconds. Leroy felt exceptionally stupid.

Finally, a discarded piece of fabric from a coat he'd lost use of seasons ago, not only for the weather, but so too for its numerous threadbare patches. It held its service even now, as a bandage of sorts.

Around the wound, now, and slowly clotting up, Leroy breathed a sigh of relief. He felt his heartbeat in his fingers and hands, in his neck and ears, and the pressure pound in his head.

✷

The candlelight was dim, but striking, and lit up the inside of Leroy's cottage home with soft, warm light. The candle itself was resting on a flat, ocean-smoothed rock, and had formed melted drips going down on all sides over the time it was used.

The windows were covered with fabric to keep more light from the outside world at bay, or rather, to keep the candlelight inside Leroy's cottage home within. Just before the sun rose, again, He'd be back on that shore.

If Leroy kept the blinds closed, the quiet lie that he'd be safer would have more weight. A promise that he didn't believe in yet, that he may be safer from Him by being less noticeable.

Outside, the winds that came with nighttime were soft, and the pleasant, sweet smell that came with it could only sour his fearful anticipation. Leroy had made a mistake, and He was going to return with His memory intact.

But, there was still time to understand what he was up against, His motivations. The book he had stolen was calling to him from across his cottage home, with enticing information.

Leroy got up and across the rough wood to approach the leather-bound wonder, of unknown contents and unknown wonders to tell him.

On the front, stamped into the leather that held the book together, there was nothing but a clean circle, surrounded by more shallow, messier, and less even line indents that made the figure look like a sun, in a way. Leroy ran his fingers across the front cover as he examined the spine and back cover. There wasn't anything else, other than the rotting evidence that the book was old.

Untying the thin string that held the book shut around the middle, then opening it, Leroy could see just how old the first pages were. Yellowed with grime and faded-looking ink, smudged in just the right place to make it seem too difficult to read.

He skipped forward some pages, the ink blotches whirring by, and the pages flipping with a satisfying sound as they went. He went to one that looked neater than the ones in the front, cleaner and shorter than the others.

The first words Leroy read were as follows;

"The walls read 50. I stopped keeping count of the days, though. Too many strikes, not enough space, and I smudged it the other day. I can't really read it now, and that leaves me with the other wall.

God knows I don't want to do it, God knows I'm not going to heaven after this. But, even God doesn't know what I am now, if not repentant.

Every time I get near him, it just eats me. I want to, I really want to. One second I'm entirely against the idea of hurting him, then the next.. I end up feeling like a monster. God damn you, Leroy. God damn my soul, too, when this happens.

I hope when I die, I really die, forever, and meet God, if I could only catch a glimpse of Leroy on the other side before my sinner soul slips down into hellfire... that would be enough. Lord help us.

-Andrew"

Leroy read aloud, stumbling over every other word. His quiet, mannered voice reverberated off the surfaces in his cottage home.

For a moment, he left the page open and blankly stared out at his drawn curtains, first unable to process what he'd just read. His eyes returned to the paper in front of him, and he reread the last line.

What is this god He's speaking of? What is His desire, and why is He falling into 'hellfire' because of it? And one more, to top it off, why is Leroy on 'the other side' of this hellfire He speaks of?

Leroy started breathing a little quicker and his eyes a little wider and he felt his grip on the leather-bound page tighten as he thought more and more. He felt as his fingers became a little weak, and loosened his grip as his hyperventilation raged on.

He mentioned He was 'repentant', but what could such a monster feel bad for, without stopping..? What could be so necessary?

And His name:

'Andrew'

Something about it felt off, ominous. Not in all of Leroy's recollection had he ever heard the name 'Andrew,' He'd never had a name in Leroy's head. It was always just Him, His forest, His knife, His intention.

And now? To think that He intended not to hurt him so? Leroy couldn't believe it. There was something missing that this book couldn't tell him, not the book alone.

Leroy flipped through some more pages, and landed on one that read:

"The wall reads twenty-six and three. I've changed the way I count, now, each stroke is five. I don't feel like counting that far up today. Maybe some other day, when I'm feeling less guilty.

My stomach feels like a rock's been thrown at it, but at least I'm not hungry. Is the pain of guilt better than the pains of hunger, though?

Leroy doesn't seem to remember me, I got closer to him this time. Before that desire took over, I was able to ask him one thing;

'Do you remember me?'

I think he took it as a threat, and he ran. But, interesting enough, I only grew that horrid desire once I looked him in his face.

I chased him a little, begging for an answer, and he just yelled at me to leave him alone. I was so close, then he turned around. Every time we both freeze up, that desire comes. I'm sorry, Leroy. I can't seem to control or stop it.

I don't want to scare you. I want to know what in the Lord's name is going on, I want to know how you are. What you need, if I could possibly do anything for you.

I miss waking up next to you, I miss taking walks side-by-side over where Eve is buried. You said you always liked that big oak tree over there, and I dream of taking you back there, one day.

-Andrew"

'Eve', who is 'Eve', Leroy thought. That was the first thing through his head, before he double back and reread it.

"My stomach feels like a rock's been thrown at it, but at least I'm not hungry."

He's hungry, why is He hungry? Why does He want to talk to Leroy, what could he remember, Leroy thought. What to remember of Him, other than seasons and seasons of terror? All of which blended together, so that now, he was left in their wake? None of this he recalled, but he reread on.

He said aloud, just in case the words didn't quite line up on the old, degraded paper, "Do you remember me?"

His voice was hushed, quiet, repeating the inked-on line. It was separate from the text above and below it, apparently Andrew placed a similar importance on this line like Leroy did.

So there was something there, but so too, the words after it. The duality of "I think he took it as a threat," and "I don't want to scare you." was staggering to Leroy, who reread the two passages again and again, grasping at any context he had to make sense of this.

Leroy stood up from where he was sitting, and went over to the candle from the counter to bring it to the table so that he could read better. Such interest he had, if not still filled with fear. He set the candle-rock down, and resumed where he'd left off, reading the page he'd seen again.

After, Leroy skipped ahead, to the last pages that were written on. He flipped to one page, looking distinctly out of place, and messy.

He saw on it:

"It must be, it must be his eyes. Every time I see Leroy's eyes, there it is. There's that well I draw upon, there's that desire. If only he could somehow cover his eyes, then I think it'd work. I could talk to him again, without invoking the wrath of some wayward god who hates us.

The wall reads one hundred-forty and one, and that's too many for me. The counting wall haunts me, and I hate looking at it. I hate adding to it. I hate myself, for being the force to make the wall count up.

Today, i'm hungry, so much so it's painful. I fear this time, if I get close to him, he'll think I'm there to harm him. I don't want to put another tick on the wall, I swear.

But without his blood, I will starve again. I can't handle that. His death is quick, even if so seemingly horrifying to him. Mine is prolonged, horrid, and I'm at the point of breaking already. It's been just three days.

I'm going out tonight. I'll see Leroy there, in his shack. Hopefully he'll be sleeping by the time I get there, so it wouldn't be so bad for him. God save us.

-Andrew"

Eyes, He said, Eyes. And his blood, and his cottage shack-home, and one hundred and forty. And one.

Those ticks, He said, those ticks He made. Leroy looked at it again;

"The counting wall haunts me, and I hate looking at it. I hate adding to it. I hate myself, for being the force to make the wall count up."

His blood, his dying, and this 'Counting wall', on this terrible counting wall, was Andrew counting how many times He saw him? Leroy took a deep gasp of air and continued on into his spiral.

Then, further down, Andrew mentioned his blood, Leroy's blood.

"But Without his blood, I'll starve again."

He licked the blood off the flint dagger the last time He got to him, and Leroy didn't like thinking about something so disgusting, especially with his own self. And yet, there it was, on the page that mocked him with its words.

He shuttered, and flipped through the rest of the pages of the book, the few there were left, but found they were blank. He then went back to the last page, eager to read more, and found the last passage.

That page, on the backside, also had writing on it. When he saw the inked-between lip, he peeled apart the delicate pages to reveal it, and leaned in closer to read it.

"The wall reads one hundred forty and three. I killed him twice in two days. I was out picking red currants in the forest patch that separates my rocky mountains and Leroy's field. They grow plentiful this time of year, and they don't tend to make me feel horrible when I eat them, in moderation of course.

I was picking the berries and cutting barren branches for decoration when I found Leroy in the brush under me. Such a shock, at first, then that desire took hold again.

He was chasing his runaway rooster, and apparently we just so happened to run into each other. Out of the entire isle, this small and foul isle, we found each other in the mess of it.

I ended up stabbing him more than necessary. I'm sorry Leelee, I really didn't think this would happen again so soon. I had a plan, this time, and I failed when it mattered the most.

I'll tell you someday, I hope, if my theory of eye contact turns out to be accurate. When we get back home, in dear Riverbend... Oh, what I thought was such a ghastly town, now I'd give my own life to see you there, safe and sound by its embankments and wonderful and wicked witches.

I'll see you there, Leroy. For now, rest in the sea. I'll go watch the sun rise over you, just in case.

-Andrew"

It hit Leroy, this was the other day, when his rooster broke loose, when he got the flint dagger, when he found Him in the center forest. Andrew, what business had He to care for Leroy, when He was the one killing him?

As his awe grew in him, in front of him, there was a hazard brewing. The candle rock had caught fire to the drapes over his windows, and like a flash, it had taken up the curtains and was spreading glowing red and white onto the wooden walls surrounding it.

Panic, first, as Leroy stumbled out of his chair and looked around the place for water. He'd kept a rough wooden bowl filled with it for drinking, but it was dry, considering he hadn't used it for anything in a few days.

There wasn't time to run to the sea and get water, and if there was, the water he would bring back would not be enough. As he crawled around on his hands and knees, he looked to the ceiling, which had now caught flaming above his head. It dawned on Leroy, slowly, as the flame grew in intensity he's got to get out of there. Now.

He got up to his feet, and grabbed the nearest thing to him, the satchel, first. He put in it anything he saw, his only metal spoon, a clay flask of dried salve, the flint dagger he'd stolen, and the last carrot he'd grown.

His bed was on the other side, where the front door was, and with it, what clothes he could make or find awash. He threw them into a bundle, and stuffed them under his arms. His shoes, he also took those, however beaten up. He still needed them.

The fire engulfed his bed, and Leroy ran out his back door, to his cow's pen, and opened it as quickly as he could, anticipating the whole cottage home would go up in flames. Then, the chickens, in their coops, and the rooster, sitting on top.

He opened the cages and shooed them away, fearful that they would burn if he hadn't. He could find them later in the brush, as long as they survived.

He was missing something crucial, however, and he couldn't think of what. Clothes and valuables, food, or the last of the food, and at last.. The book!

Leroy dropped what he had in his arms and dashed back inside, and greeted by flames on every surface. The fire was creeping ever-closer to the hide-bound book he'd dropped on the floor, and Leroy cautiously took a few steps forward to approach it.

The flaming roof collapsed on him, and hit his back, sending him to the floor. It set fire to his hair first, then to his shirt, all as Leroy wailed in pain.. The book wasn't worth it, right?

He pushed the smoldering rubble away from him just enough to move away, and got to his hands and knees, swatting at the fire in vain. The fire stuck to everything, the smoke choking the air, the pain making itself undeniable.

Down, searing pain. Not searing, not one place, only him. Agony. Searing agony, as he crawled forward, through the burning wood of his former cottage home.

And in front of him, the dark indigo blue of night. If he could get out of the light, he'd live.

If he could crawl out of the flame, he'd be okay.

If he could relegate the pain to the back of his mind, he'd be fine.

Desperately, he pulled himself along with his skinny arms into the comforting cold of night, the wind blowing over the oozing burns, flaring up while also numbing the pain. Forward, he thought, only forward.

The exhaustion he felt was nothing, until he looked to his side to see that he was out. The smoke that stung at his eyes and throat? Nothing until he could breathe fresh air, No, Nothing at all.

Because in nothingness, comes sleep. By the time the fire was out, Leroy was fast asleep in the field, left only half-alive.