𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊

The bitter bite from permafrost is almost as cold as tangible loneliness.

No one ever can truly prepare you for growing up alone, but how could they? They’d have to be there to do that for you. As far back as he can remember, Riley has been the only one living in these caves, seeing no one other than the scarce wildlife, most notably the migrating houndles he sees every so often, leaving, and then returning some time later. It’s the only way he’s been able to recognize seasonal changes outside of his home, knowing that perhaps, somewhere, there’s something better to be sought.

But who could just abandon a bappy like that? Long ago, Riley used to think about it at great length, pondering what could have led up to this, knowing that agonizing over it would never accomplish anything but still continuing to do so. He grew to realize over the years that whoever left him here had to have gone out of their way to do so; there’s no one else around, and his bright, warm colors are definitely more suitable for a coastal symprite, not one here in the cold mountains. At least, he acknowledges, that he has the warm fur he needs to continue living here, notwithstanding. He has convinced himself that whoever did leave him here did so with the knowledge that he could thrive here. Lonely, cold, but alive.

It’s a far cry from having a life to live, but rather some mere existence that couldn’t hold even the smallest candle to any semblance of living life as anyone else could, and in fact does.

There’s a whole world out there, somewhere. It’s living, thriving. Life goes on whether he is a part of it or not. And that is perhaps the loneliest thing he can think of.

In the beginning, it was sad. Lonely. It drove him to the brink of insanity, almost. How can one expect a symprite so small to care for themselves, let alone entertain, teach, and protect? As the years went by, he became almost numb to the feeling, just living his day to day without so much as a thought to just how lonely he felt, for he almost felt nothing at all. One might consider them good years, but could they really be that? The more years that passed, the more the loneliness crept out, to the point where it felt like a perpetual scream inside his head, rattling the edges of his brain, desperate for something, anything, to break the cycle of monotony, the endless drudgery of solitude.

He sits there on the cold cave floor, the carefully-chipped stones he uses as strategic game pieces laid out neatly in front of him, ready to be picked up and played with.

Maybe he won’t play today. Tomorrow, perhaps.

Today, he’ll venture out somewhere. Anywhere, really. Just anywhere but here.