Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I'm A Truck Driver And I Got Caught In The Bermuda Triangle Of Roads | Scary Stories

Episode Date: July 24, 2023

No one has ever escaped. Story from TheCrookedBoy Make sure to check out more of their work at u/TheCrookedBoy  Original Post: I'm a truck driver and I got caught in the Bermuda Triangle of Roads : r/ManiacSociety     Original YouTube link: I'm A Truck Driver And I Got Caught In The Bermuda Triangle Of Roads   For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Sound Effects: Freesound Zapsplat  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new scary stories, new true stories, and new creepypasta stories every day!

They call it the dead stretch. The grizzled old timer on the stool beside me in the diner said, a sun-beaten John Deere cap pitched slightly on his whiskered head. He punctuated this with a slurp of coffee, which he drank like a dog takes water, lifting the steaming mug to his lips for his tongue to dart in and out like a shriveled worm, helping the java into his leathery mouth.

It was late, too late to give a shit about the time, but well past dark. The diners' wraparound windows framed a wide lot bathed in the black of night and a drift of snow. Only by the glow of the truck stops neon light, the night owl, refuel your tankers and your coffee cups, and the headlights of long haulers pulling in and out. I thanked God for all-night truck stops. The coffee tasted like cat piss, and the eggs weren't much better, but it was a glorious break from the endless hours corralling 80,000 pounds of long-haul truck across the country. The Dead Stretch, I asked, puzzled.

I'd driven plenty of roads. Most of them as empty and treacherous as my ex-wife, and they bore all manner of strange names taken from trucker colloquialism. But I had never heard of anything called the Dead Stretch. Yep. The old-timer said through a mouthful of age. Cuts through the Arzarks like a good whore through a weak marriage, empty road for 45, 50 miles, just you and your hula girl in those mean woods far as the eye can see.

But you keep aware, and you'll get through with no damn hitch. My usual route, a busy interstate which cut a fairly straight line across the state, was caught in a nasty blight of road work, detouring all would-be travelers elsewhere. I'd scoured my glove box map for an alternative route, which wouldn't cost me more than an hour. That's when I found a little vein of road snaking through the Ozark Mountains, a shortcut, which would, surprisingly, save me time. Not sure how I'd never noticed it on the map before. When I asked the fella sitting next to me at the diner if he'd ever done it, he cocked an eyebrow and told me its unofficial title. Why do they call it that?

I questioned, avoiding your name. using its nickname. I didn't like how it felt on my tongue, like the words were squirming insects scraping to get out. The dead stretch. Just one of those things. There's talk, sure. Always is talk about a place like this. You hear rumors. Guys seeing something strange, hearing something strange, no other cars around. He's bound to see something just to make the time pass quicker. I guess it took from John Haddinger. He was a drunk and hit a patch of black ice one night. Jack knifed straight off the road, wrapped the nose of his bed bugger around a tree. They never found his body, say he just blew right through the windshield. I shuddered at the thought, not only of shooting

my truck off flat ground and blasting through the windshield like a rocket ship, but of driving a lone stretch of mountains with only ugly Missouri woods for company. You'd do best to find another route, squirt. This time of year, frost, snow, and a hell of a dark breeds accidents like rabbits do more rabbits." The old-timer said with a smirk, his crooked smile filled with yellow mush. I had to get going. I could feel exhaustion's warm blanket settling in over my shoulders, and if I didn't

leave this stool, I was afraid my tired ass would melt right into it, gluing me in place. I, uh, I hesitated, not sure how to ask, not sure how to admit to myself and him that his word of warning had gotten to me. You know any other way through? He grinned. Sure do, Sonny. After the old timer gave me directions, I stepped out into the chill and pulled out my cell, surprised to see it was only half past ten.

My little girl was a night owl like a. me and would still be up, so I gave her a ring. There was no doubt my ex-wife would blame me for keeping her awake, but the sound of my nine-year-old daughter's voice was worth the cost of admission. Daddy. Her voice filled my ear. I felt a smile pinching at my ears. Hey, weirdo, I said, and she giggled. What are you still doing up? Um, just reading my book. What book? Harry Potter. She said in a burst. Uh-huh.

You learn anything at school today? Bunch of nothing. She said, well, that's why you get books, ain't it? Hey, those boys still giving you trouble? I could censor hesitation on the line. Honey, you tell me if you're getting crap, and I'll come to class and whoop some ass. Just say the word, honey. I'm there.

I'm okay. I swear. All right, I said. And then I heard the murmured voice. of my ex interrogating my daughter on who she was talking to. She said daddy, which brought my ex-wife no great pleasure. Honey, you there? She needs to go to bed, Carl. My ex-wife's derisive tone was not one of the things I missed about our marriage. Five more minutes? No. I'll tell her you said good night. There was a click as the line went dead. I cursed and

I should have pressed harder, should have done more. After all that's happened, I wish I'd just gotten to say goodbye to my little girl. Twenty minutes later, I was on the road. A six-lane highway with sparse traffic rolling by beneath my feet, the great beast of my truck humming gently as it carried me up the safer road the old-timer had recommended. I was making decent time and was ultimately glad I'd heeded his advice and avoided the dead stretch. I was behind an hour or two, but I always valued my safety over time. Speeding was never worth sparing some change on your clock. I felt good, tired, but good.

Then I saw the flares, little beads of light burning through the haze of snow spiraling down out of the black heavens. As I drew closer, I saw the extent of the damage. The flares drew a crude outline around an ancient pine tree laid across the road. This massive obstruction blocked all six lanes of traffic, a snarl of roots dangling from one end, a spread of pine branches from the other. There was a state trooper in his cruiser directing people to turn back. And when I asked, he told me the road cruise wouldn't be able to clear it out until morning.

I was screwed. tired and screwed. And there I sat, cursing God's name as I flipped ass back the way I'd come from, back toward the road that would take me up the dead stretch. The dead stretch was a narrow strip of two-lane blacktop, slick with ice, which carved a path through the rocky, wooded Ozark Mountains. It rose at a steep incline, carrying me up into the mountains and toward my destination. I eased back on the gas, remembering the old-timer's story about that guy who wrapped his truck around a tree and drove with both hands firmly on the wheel.

There was no other traffic. I was totally alone. And then I wasn't. I saw the first shape about 12 miles up the road. I'm not sure of altitudes, but I was high up. The road curved here and there to a couple of. accommodate the craggy landscape, and a high visibility metal retainer ran along the lane, my lane, which stretched along a sheer drop. The snow had thickened, well on its way to becoming

a full-blown blizzard, and my visibility was shrinking to the 15-foot cone of light my brights lanced ahead. I was approaching one of those curves in the road when I saw it. The road, which was planning to take a harsh left just ahead, and I ended abruptly in a collage of high visibility warning signs telling me to turn. I had plenty of time to make the curve, and had eased the gas even further back, slowing to a crawl. When I saw the spider-like shape skitter over the reflective signs, it was live and quick, moving on a multitude of stick-like, jagged limbs which carried its furry brown body like a monkey from here to their there in the blink of an eye.

My headlights caught its eyes, and they glowed. And then it was gone, slithering over the signs and disappearing down the face of the cliff. My heart shot into the red line, thudding in my chest like a racehorse. I could feel my throat tightening, could feel fear squeezing my heart in its icy grip. My truck was still shooting forward, straight towards the edge of a cliff, and the thing I had seen. I pumped the brakes in time, skidding safely to a stop. Without the thrum of my engine, the howl of the wind tightened, beating in on the signs of my cab with a frozen fist as I sat there, knuckles white, hands wringing the steering wheel, trying to process what I'd just seen. No, I

certainly hadn't seen anything. It was late. It was dark, and I was riding on empty with only cat-piss coffee to keep me. There was a thump. The sound came from the roof of my cab, hollow and powerful, like something just landed above me. I waited, and I didn't hear another sound. As fear loosened its grip on my heart, I began to realize I heard scratching, razor-sharp nails scraping and clicking their way across the roof. Slow, deliberate. making their way towards my windshield. I couldn't move. The scraping was getting closer, louder. And then a raccoon, fat and fluffy, slid down the windshield and waddled off the hood of my truck, its tiny nails clicking and clacking as it went. It plunked down into the snow

and wandered off into the night, leaving me feeling slightly idiotic. I looked around wondering where it could have come from. And then something burst through the passenger window. I was showered in glass, and this thing lunged for my throat. I instinctively jerked away as its gangly, sloth-like arms swung for my jugular with huge hooked claws. It was snarling, shrieking. It resembled a spider melded with a cave-dwelling bat, and it was as big as a man. The only thing that said, saved me. Is that it couldn't fit through the window. It slashed at the passenger seat and severed the radio. My only chance to call for help? I still had a phone, but experience told me there'd be no signal out here. The image of my daughter suddenly flashed across my mind,

and I howled and kicked. I kicked for my life. The powerful souls of my workboots pounded down on the spider bat with all the fury I could muster. The monster screamed and began slashing at my legs. One of those hooked claws caught my thigh and tore flesh from bone. It was my turn to scream. I kicked harder and harder, channeling everything into my feet, fighting through the agony as I booted for everything I was worth. I kicked and heard a sickening crunch, like stepping unbroken glass as the spider bat's face crumpled inward. The creature howled and withdrew into the storm, its hateful face glistening with black blood, its eyes bright, as it faded off into the swirling white noise. I threw my truck in gear and eased off down the road. I hit the

turn as my speed picked up, slowly and surely urging my mechanical beat. into a gallop. I fumbled out the map, unfurling it over the wheel, while I split my attention between the road ahead and trying to pinpoint exactly where I was on the map. I looked down at my leg and immediately regretted it. It was bad. I located myself on the map, and I realized I was only a quarter of the way through the dead stretch, and I was quickly approaching what us truckers sometimes call a hole in the wall. I was approaching a tunnel. As I got closer, I heard another shriek, and then another, and another. Soon I could hear dozens of them, like a band of wolves, and they were calling for me. As I approached the tunnel, which board

a two-lane hole through the center of a tremendous mountain, I heard the shriek, streaks getting closer. The denizens of the dead stretch were coming for me. I began to see them in my side mirrors, shapes, too many to count, racing along in an attempt to match speed with my truck, and they were gaining on me. Scores of them, like a thick stream of ants. I plowed forward up the road. The needle of my speedometer was steadily climbing from 30 to 40 to 50, as I raced toward the mouth of the tunnel. The blizzard was worsening. I had a sinking suspicion that I was still driving in an incline, rising higher into the

mountains into the dead stretch with every passing second. Blizzards were always worse higher up. The snow had become a churning wall of white that engulfed my world, snapping around with the fury of God. The gale-force wind was screaming. It was bad conditions made worse, much worse by my rising panic, and the horde of beast chasing me with their cries. My visibility was shrinking every second. My headlights were being blotted out by the storm.

I shouldn't have been able to see the tunnel entrance through the thickening storm, but I did. I could. It loomed ahead like a pair of open jaws. then I was inside it. I drove and never looked back. The shrieks receded into the distance before fading into the wind completely. As I continued, I noticed the things had refused to join me in the inky blackness of the tunnel. I should have stopped to wonder why. It was pitch black in that tunnel. I eased back on the gas. My headlights lanced the road ahead, illuminating two lanes of cracked, unused asphalt, bumpy, abused, long forgotten by the world. There were raw stone walls

and the ceiling. Well, I couldn't see the ceiling. I knew it wasn't low, and I wondered if there was a ceiling at all. I had a dreadful feeling that I was driving beneath a great abyss. The noise had died down, the creature's shrieks had stopped, and the wind had taken a muffler, suffocated into a distant drone by the tunnel. The familiar hum of my truck's engine was a comfort, the cold was bad, but I didn't feel it. I thought I was home free, and then I nearly crashed. The pickup came rushing out of the darkness. I slammed the brakes and went screeching to a stop just in time. nose of my truck coming to rest softly on the bumper of the ruined car that blocked my way. It was painted an ugly crimson that had been frosted over completely. It looked like it had

been there since the beginning of time. I could see claw marks on the car. The windows were blown out and my headlights illuminated an empty interior. Icicles dangled from the ceiling like daggers. The seating was torn to shreds. that gave me much concern. What did, however, was the fact that I was no longer moving. I hesitated for an instant, before I eased on the gas and began to push the pickup forward, trying to ease it out of my way. It was a terrible idea. As I urged the pickup forward, it began to shift sideways, both bumpers scraping the walls as it turned at a parallel, until it came to rest sitting horizontally over both lanes of traffic.

It was stuck, wedged between the walls of the tunnel and completely unmoving. I stopped and just sat there, coming to terms with what this meant. It meant that in order to move I'd have to get out of my truck, secure the pickup to my winch, and reverse until it was dislodged and out of the way. I figured I'd also have to detach my trailer. It would only slow me down and make my journey that much harder. Shit. I realized my leg was still bleeding. I hadn't severed an artery. If I had, I'd be dead already, but it was a nasty wound. And I took a moment to cinch it tight with my belt.

I felt a flash of pain and grunted. Then a warm numbness settled in as the blood loss slowed. I looked back at the pickup, hesitating at the idea of abandoning the safety of my truck for the cold darkness of the tunnel. There was no point in putting this off any longer. I grabbed a flashlight and tire iron, and I stepped out of my truck. The first thing I did was angle my flashlight skyward. I was right. There was no ceiling.

The tunnel wall stretched up maybe 20 feet. before opening into a vast cavern. I couldn't tell you how big or small the space was. My flashlight beam melted out of existence, not finding any ceiling or walls beyond the ones to my sides. I shuddered, feeling the distant but familiar terror of a child, small and tormented by the dark in the belly of a mountain. I forced myself into motion. And ten minutes later, the pickup was out of my way. I made tracks to my trailer, meaning to detach it, and that's when I heard the noise, a chittering, like the raspy fluttering sound of cicadas.

I paused, and it stopped. And then I heard it again. It was coming from above me. It was echoing, fading off into silence like before. I swung my light upwards, and it took me a moment to realize what I was seeing. At first, I thought it was stars spread out across a cloudless night sky, but it wasn't. It was eyes, glowing, hundreds of them, yellow unblinking eyes spattered across the darkness like pinpricks of light.

Then they blinked in unison and chittered. Terror turned my legs to jelly at the realization that this was not many creatures with many eyes staring down at me. It was one creature, one incredible beast that inhabited the hollowed cavern of this great mountain. I had to get out of here, right now. My trembling hand reached for the pin that was would uncouple my trailer, and that's when the tentacles shot out of the darkness above me. I ripped the pin free, releasing the trailer from my cab as a dozen tentacles, black and scaly, lanced down out of the abyss like coiled snakes snapping on their prey. They were as thick as tree branches, tipped with a sunken mouth of needle-sharp teeth. I realized the eyes

were inside the mouse sitting at the end of some awful esophagus. And then I screamed, batting away one as it shot towards me. I lunged for the driver's side door, and I felt my feet go out from under me. I was barely able to pull myself up and into the cab. I slammed the door and keyed the ignition, and I floored the gas. The tentacles were everywhere. It was like being caught in a hailstorm, the helpless feeling of being under assault from the sky. My truck picked up speed as I scraped by the pickup, the tentacles rocking and swaying my vehicle as I gunned it. I could see the end of the tunnel now, but those things were trying to capsize me.

I eased the wheel to the right, pulling my truck as close to the rocky wall as I dared. I listened with a sort of satisfaction. as the tentacles were torn away by the wall, and I could hear them shriek in pain. And then I shot out of the tunnel. I eyed the side mirror, and I saw a mass of tentacles lash out after me, before withdrawing back into the deep darkness of their home. The blizzard had parted like a curtain, revealing the moonscape I now found myself in. I was trucking through a narrow valley, carved through a rock. rocky wood. Ugly trees, drenched in frost, pressed in like bookends. Beyond them, two great

mountains spread like wings of rock up into the sky on either side of me. I was high up. I could make out the mountain's peaks dusted in cloud and could tell that my altitude had risen substantially. The road had become a bumpy one lane crusted in ice. I doubted very much, if it was even a road at all. It went on like that for some time. And then the road forked unexpectedly. It split to the right through a narrow pass, and I saw a set of tracks in the snow, huge footprints dwindling off that way. The indentations conjured up images of a huge beast waiting through a blizzard. What the hell could have made those? I thought to myself. To the left, the road continued on to an ancient bridge, steel and wood warped by weather,

extending a finger of land across a vast cavern. I went left, toward the bridge, figuring it was a better bet. Bridge meant humanity. Humanity meant finding my way home. But as I drew closer, I saw the floor of the bridge had collapsed long ago. It was completely impassable. I slowed my truck to a crawl and then a stop, and I sat there. It was cold. I was shivering. And after a while, I threw my truck in reverse and I went back, back towards the narrow pass, and whatever had made those footprints.

After the spider bats and the beast in the mountain, the last thing I expected to find in the dead stretch was a cabin. I'd been headed up the narrow pass for a long while, certain I'd get stuck. Rocky Canyon walls eased in on either side, and there were a few points where I found myself very close to grating to a stop. I thought about those massive footprints I'd seen leading this way and wondered what might come next. Surely something to rival the awfulness I'd encountered before, surely something that would end me once and for all. But no. My truck crunched out of the narrow canyon, and I found myself at the base of a naked snow-covered hill. This bore none of the ugly landmarks that had come before. It was a smooth mound of unblemished powder,

supporting the biggest log cabin I'd ever seen. Smoke rose from the cabin's chimney and I could see firelight through the windows. Warmth, I thought, and I nearly cried with joy. I don't remember driving up the hill, nor staggering from my truck and collapsing at the cabin's front door. But as soft curtains of darkness closed over my vision, I found myself curled up on a welcome mat the size of a dining table. It read, Freezed to meet you.

I remember thinking that was silly, before darkness swallowed me, and I thought no more. Warmth was a strange feeling. I'd awoken in the cabin, my leg bandaged, and for a terrible moment I felt like Alice after taking the drink-me potion. The world around me was far too large. The cabin, too big for any human, was barren, lopsided, and built for me. hand. I was on a massive, moldering couch in the main room, which was sparse, and had little in the way of landmarks. There was a kitchen table, and stew frothing in a denid pot over the raging flames of

the hearth. There was a dark hallway, which split off towards the bedrooms. I only glanced over at these for a moment, because the biggest man in the world was sitting across from me. He must have stood. My God, 11 feet tall? Built like an old circus strong man with a head of wild white hair. His cheeks were rugged and snow-wipped, and frizzy white mutton chops shot out at weird angles from a face cut from granite. Big tufts of coarse snowy hair sprouted from the cuffs of his patchworked flannel, which produced thick hands, the the size of catchers' mitts. There was only one thing I thought to ask.

Are you Santa Claus? For a second, I thought he might have been. No. He answered. I'm a Yeti. He could have been a man. When he spoke, it was slow and deliberate, and I saw big square teeth, except for the canines which were hooked fangs, tucked into fat pink gums. He moved deftly, which was oddly unbefitting

of a man of his size, of a thing of his size, rather. And then he poured me a bowl of the best tasting stew I'd ever had, and he sat down, and we talked. Hmm, what, what is this? This is delicious, I said, swallowing a mouthful of the thick, hot stew. Snow elk stew. He replied. They come through in herds, fewer and fewer. And then he told me the history of his people, and I listened in silence as he spoke of

the village of the Yetis who'd once ruled this side of the mountain and how they were no more. All gone now. He said, I'm the last, and soon I will join them, frozen bones entombed in ice. I asked him of the creatures I'd encountered, and for the first time he seemed to tense up, giving a vague reply. I asked for his name.

You couldn't pronounce it. He said. He didn't ask for mine. We talked more, and something felt off. The air was stale and ripe, and it gave the impression of death nearby. He was aloof, and at first I attributed that to his nature, but the longer we spoke, the more I suspected he was hiding something. So what happened to the other Yeties? I asked between spoonfuls of stew, chewing the cubes of meat thoughtfully, savoring the flavor of the snow elk which was sweet and somehow reminded me of chicken.

Long story, he said, rising. Bathroom first. Stories after. He hurried to the front door and disappeared outside for the outhouse. And then I was alone. I was suddenly aware of every sound the thin whistle of wind outside, the crackle of warmth and the fire. Floor boards creaking from the other room. Was there someone else in the cabin? I slowly rose and moved into the hallway, which ended indoors on either side.

I heard the creaking again. It came from the one on the left. I moved slowly. My hand reached out, shaking slightly, as it eased open the left side door. And then the smell hit me. The hot stench of rot, thick and suffocating. I coughed in a great cloud of frost plumed from my lips, obscuring my field of view. When it cleared, I saw meat. Two dozen skinned slabs dangled from meat hooks, all muscle and fat and bone, dripping blood which pooled in a sticky layer on the floor. There were several animals, some of which I couldn't identify, but six or seven of them

were humans, men and women, skinned, butchered and hanging. Some of their bodies were moldy, old, and shrivelled, like meat forgotten in the back of a fridge. I saw a man missing his thigh and left arm, a woman with no head. And I felt the human being stew churned in my stomach, and then a huge shadow swallowed me. I would have let you go, the Yeti said, the air turning hot as he moved closer. I have enough to last winter. I turned to look at him and was met with the back of his hand.

I crumbled into darkness before I could even scream. I was floating when I woke up and my shoulder was on fire. There was a meat hook driven through it and I was dangling with the corpses of those who'd come before me. The steady throb of my flesh with a cold metal bar. forced through it was unbearable. I bit my tongue so I wouldn't scream. I squeezed my eyes clear, and I looked around. The room was cramped and square, and through the human ornaments, I could see part of a grimy butcher's block against one wall. A cleaver, with a blade the size of a laptop computer, was jutting up from the wood. The blade was scarred and rusted, and I was

I wondered how it would feel sawing through my neck. I felt my stomach churn, and I remember the human stew I'd so cheerfully gobbled up earlier. I wondered if this would be my tomb. And then a thought occurred. I looked up. I saw icicles dangling from water-logged rafters and hooks bolted to the ceiling, from which the meat hooks hung. Their eyelids threaded through the little rusted fingers secured to the wood.

Meat-hooks on hooks, I thought and grimaced. Then I saw something that gave my heart a little flutter of hope. There was an empty meat-hook off to my right, hanging unburdened in the frosty air. If I could reach it, maybe I could unlock it from the ceiling. It would make a meager weapon, but any weapon was better than none. I reached for it and felt my shoulders sizzle. And then I reached further and bit down. down as my shoulder began to burn.

My fingertips grazed the edge of the hook, and I reached further, but no, I wasn't going to be able to reach it. The only way was if I could build momentum, like a kid on a swing, going up and up to get it. I was summoning the nerve to try when I heard something that made my stomach drop. Footsteps. I didn't think. I swung for the meat hook.

The pain was incredible now and the footsteps were getting closer. I swung with everything I had, and I grabbed it, and then quickly concealed it behind my back. The Yeti lumbered in, just as I was steadying myself on the body beside me. He paused and looked up at me. And just when I thought I'd been caught, I saw there was sadness in his eyes. I'm sorry. He said and moved over to the butcher's block. He pried the cleaver free.

My palm was sweating and I tightened my grip on the meat hook held behind my back. Please, I have a daughter. So did I, he said. So did I. He waited through the hanging bodies and stood before me. Can't you? I choked on my emotion, hot tears sliding down my face. It'll be quick.

He raised the cleaver. I inhaled, and the world shot into clarity. I roared, and the Yeti paused, stunned. The meat hook in my hand came down with more force than I ever knew was in me. He looked over at the surge of movement, and the tip of the meat hook went burrowing through his eye with a wet crackle. His cleaver fell to the floor. He looked up at me with his good eye, the meat hook jutting from his skull. Blood bubbled from his eye socket. The lights in his head dimmed, and slowly he tumbled forward. I don't want to relive the hour I spent

forcing my body off the meat hook, and so I'll spare myself and only tell you what came next. I found my truck where I'd left it out front with a key still in the ignition. When the engine coughed to life, I tried not to cry. And then I drove. I drove and never looked back. The world around me was white and pure and smooth. It was a snow-drenched moonscape. There were no mountains or trees or rolling hills.

The sky was pure and black, with only an icy moon to cast my world in silver. I drove this way for a while. And then the highway came. Just like that. Two lanes of smooth asphalt began in the snow and didn't end until I found myself on the other side of the dead stretch. The landscape changed slowly. Growing trees, mountains, and the twinkling lights of towns, I didn't see any of it. My hands were frozen to the wheel.

My eyes were frozen on the road, and I was covered in my own blood. I must have blacked out. I woke up in heaven, a sterile, white heaven. It was a hospital room, but as a man who'd lived through what I had, it might as well have been heaven. It's been a long and painful recovery. My leg aches day and night. My mind does too. I still dream about the dead stretch.

I can only hope that time slowly burns that away, like a night fog under the first light of dawn. But I made it through, and I got to see my daughter's face again. She visited me today. We did coloring books, and I hugged her tight. never wanting to let go