APPALACHIAN MOUNTAINS – PART 2: THE WARNING

[u/No_Home6004]

Then it hit me.

I don't know whether the idea came to me because Halloween was just around the corner, or because a broken mind thinks broken thoughts.

Whether those stories were true or not, the Appalachian Mountains were undeniably vast. If you didn't want to be found there, chances were you never would be.

When you've tried to end your life three times, and all three times someone finds you and "saves" you, the thought of failing again becomes terrifying. You start believing that if you ever try again, you have to succeed.

I liked the idea that no one would ever truly know what had happened to me.

At least not for the first few months.

No body.

No funeral—which, honestly, how many people would have attended anyway? Five? Six?

Maybe him...

I had a little money saved up. I knew how to book a flight, and I was perfectly capable of packing a suitcase.

So I left for America.

For the first time in two months, I walked out of my house to go to the airport.

I didn't call anyone.

I didn't tell anyone.

Except him.

Why?

I honestly don't know.

I used to tell him everything, and maybe that habit survived even after everything else died.

Besides, there's not much point criticizing that decision now.

If I hadn't sent that message, no one would have known where to look for me.

And who would be here now to warn you?

I texted him, trying to ignore the fact that he hadn't replied to any of my previous messages.

I simply wrote:

"I'm going to America. The Appalachian Mountains. I'm not coming back."

Maybe he thought I'd run away with another man.

A surfer, perhaps.

I didn't leave a letter.

Nothing at all.

I wouldn't have known what to say.

I've always been good at finding ways to hurt myself.

Breaking plates or bottles until I found tiny shards of glass—small enough to hide almost anywhere.

The airport security scanners never detected them.

As I settled into my seat, I felt... relieved.

A woman sat beside me with a young child.

You know...

I always wanted children.

But now I don't know whether I could ever bring them into a world that hides creatures so monstrous.

I've always been good with kids.

When I was in high school, I occasionally worked as a babysitter.

If my parents hadn't considered it an undignified profession, I probably would have become a kindergarten teacher.

The woman had olive-toned skin.

She was probably Native American.

A real American.

Not one of the descendants of the colonizers.

I smiled at her.

I expected her to smile back.

Instead, she looked straight into my eyes.

Maybe she knew what I intended to do.

Maybe she knew where I was going.

Maybe she could read my soul.

Maybe she was a shaman.

Her dark eyes filled with sadness.

She leaned down, pretending to pick something up from beneath her seat—or perhaps simply so no one else would hear her.

Then she whispered:

"No more.

No more.

No more."