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Their first home was dark. Not dark like the cave they would later spend decades trapped in, but a false dark, like the sky before sunrise, when the sun is still hidden but its light has leaked over the night sky. The walls all glowed soft orange, sometimes dim, sometimes not at all. Their home had always been cramped, they couldn’t stretch their folded legs or lift their bent head, but as the glow dimmed and brightened their home became ever smaller. They waited. When the time was right they would know what to do, but the time wasn’t right yet.
The bright came, all soft and pleasant, warming their home. They stretched out, sliding their hand along the curve of the wall. Their legs were curled up against their chest now, but it wasn’t time yet.
The dim came, the bright came. The hinges of their spindle legs pressed up against their soft head, their back pressed into the inside of the glowing walls. They couldn’t move except to curl their fingers. The bony part of their belly felt funny. It wasn’t time yet. They had been waiting for as long as they could remember, they could wait a little longer.
By the time the dim came the funny feeling in their belly had grown into sharp pain. It was time. They stretched out as far as they could, straining against the walls of their home. It was time. They kicked the walls, beat on them with their hands. They had to get out, get out, get out before they died. They jackknifed, driving both heels into the wall, but the wall was unbreakable. The pain in their belly twisted with them as they thrashed with rising urgency. Out. Out. Out. Out. It was time to leave their home.
The dim was turning dark much faster than it did normally.
The pain in their belly was eating them up.
Their thrashing slowed.
Darker. Darker. Darker.
They curled up, they had one last chance; one last kick in their tired legs. They jackknifed again, putting every ounce of energy they had into smashing their feet through the wall. The wall buckled, it’s smooth surface cracking. It wasn’t enough, they weren’t out yet.
They kicked again, again. The crack grew. They curled, turning to line their head up with the crack. As they did, the dark won-out. They shoved off the opposite side of the wall, their head hit the wall—and broke through.
Gasping and slimy they flopped out of the confines of their home. Momentum carried them halfway out, their own slipperiness made the other half slide out after them. Air, yes. They had lungs, they could breathe.
They laid on their back, breathing. The dark faded into dim, faded into bright. They blinked, four glossy eyes staring at the outside of their house and the tall trees surrounding them. Their chest rose and fell in huge, even breaths. Fluids from the inside of their home plastered their thin tuft of silver hair to their head, and brittle dead leaves stuck to their body.
They watched a leaf break off of its branch and float down to the forest floor beside their head. And it occurred to them, as they laid there, that they didn’t know what to do next.
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