Trudging through the Desert

A young boy walked through the desert, his raggedy robes whipping in the harsh winds. His throat was parched and aching with thirst. His stomach growled in hunger, a lion cheated out of a good meal. He walked on his own two feet for many days now, unsure of when or where he would stop. The boy only knew he had to keep going, keep going away from home until nobody could reach him. How far was he from home anyway? Was he a day, a week, even a month’s time away from home?

	It didn’t matter, though. His entire body was threatening to shut down in the midst of the harsh, sandy winds and unrelenting sun. Sweat covered every inch of the boy’s body, long dried by the sun’s rays. How much longer could he survive all on his own, with a body weak with hunger and thirst? Not much longer, the boy figured. Even he knew that he was ill prepared for this. All of his water supply was gone. All of the bread was eaten. He would die in this desert, he thought, due to heat stroke and dehydration. Better than dying of poison in his sleep, the boy thought somberly, trudging through the storm with weak, faltering steps. Better than sharing the same fate his family had.

	Soon, the boy collapsed in the sands, his vision fading away. He began to hear voices, or so he thought. Maybe they were just tricks on his mind; he was dying, after all.  They spoke kind things, such as, “We’re going to get you out of here. Hold on,” and “Don’t go dying on me now.” There was no way an actual person was going to save him out in this blasted heat. It was all an illusion and nothing more. All an illusion, the boy figured. He let unconsciousness take him, letting the voices comfort him as he slipped into what he thought was Death’s cold embrace.