Day Twenty-Two: Humiliation

That's right! In the end, he found me. He pressed his gun to my head and forced me into servitude! I was terrified, but I refused to yield. Little Black must have sensed my defiance, for it lunged at him with a furious roar.

“Little Black, no!” I tried to stop it, but I was too late.

A gunshot rang out, and Little Black fell.

The pain was excruciating—a heartbreak that tore through my soul. It was as if I had lost a brother, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it.

The gun still pressed against my head.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot you dead!” he threatened again.

I admit I was afraid, but so what? For my sake, Little Black’s fate now hung in the balance.

How could I find peace?

Despite his repeated threats, I moved to Little Black’s side. Gently, I gathered it into my arms, blood staining my hands. It trembled, its eyes gazing quietly at me, as if trying to comfort me.

...

These events from the past few days replayed endlessly in my mind.

My hatred for him grew with every passing moment.

He had not only seized my little cabin but also forced me to bring him three meals a day.

Thankfully, I had buried the ashes from my old campfire that night; otherwise, he would have questioned me about them.

The fluid in my lighter was running low. I doubted it would last much longer.

I would never let these things fall into his hands.

Now, I was homeless, and the nights stretched even longer than before.

Little Black had survived—the bullet struck its right hind leg, not a fatal wound, but luck was running thin.

Its condition, however, was grim. The wound had festered, pus seeping from it. In this place, where supplies were scarce, such an injury could easily be fatal.

There were no antibiotics, no gauze, nothing to treat a wound.

Little Black was clearly infected. Today, it could not even open its eyes.

I squeezed the pus and blood from its wound, washed my tattered shirt as best I could, tore it into strips, and used them to dress Little Black’s injury.

Now, it was up to you, Little Black.

...

I didn’t want to lose Little Black. I considered searching the wreck of the ship nearby; perhaps there might be medicine inside.

...

The ship was in chaos. It took great effort to enter the cabin, where a stench hung in the air.

I rummaged everywhere for a long time but found no medicine.

Disappointment weighed heavily on me.

“So this is where it’s been! That damned thing—he hid it here all along. He must have planned to kill me!” a voice cursed loudly nearby.

I guessed that they suspected each other because of the box I had taken.

I peered out quietly. He was struggling to drag the box toward my cabin.

Whatever was inside, I had no interest—perhaps money, gold, or something else of value.

All I cared about was finding medicine. If Little Black died because of me, I would never forgive myself.

Despite searching every inch of the ship’s cabin, I found nothing. He had already taken everything useful days ago.

He was extremely cautious, making me taste everything before he’d accept it.

As evening fell, I gathered several kinds of wild fruit for him—some bright red and juicy, others bitter and fragrant.

But today, he flew into a rage.

He hurled the fruit at my face and warned me: if I didn’t bring him something new, he’d kill Little Black first, then break my legs and let me starve to death.

I was afraid, of course, but my hatred for him burned hotter.

So, one plan after another for resistance took shape in my mind.

Should I kill him in his sleep?

No—I didn’t have the courage. Even with my eyes closed, I couldn’t bring myself to kill.

Dig a trap?

I had no tools, and besides, that seemed too cruel for me to accept.

...

In the end, I thought of a plan—one I could carry out, and with a high chance of success.

Pale red berries!

The same kind that had made me hallucinate the last time.

I must have eaten too many because they were delicious. That last time, I ate so many that I saw visions of tigers and almost lost my mind.

Tomorrow, I would put my plan into action.

...

As soon as he began hallucinating, I would seize his gun and warn him to stay away from us.

Without his weapon, he would lose his threat. I’d recommend he move into the cave by the cliff at the foot of the mountain.

Little Black’s wound began to bleed again, refusing to heal, and pus oozed out once more.

Fortunately, the moonlight tonight was bright.

By its light, I squeezed out the pus again and replaced the bandage with another strip of fabric torn from my shirt.

Little Black seemed to be hallucinating; its body was feverish, eyes tightly shut, its leg twitching involuntarily.

The sight broke my heart. Little Black should not have had to endure this, yet for my sake, it did so without hesitation.

The night was quiet, with a gentle breeze.

If we had been in the cabin, perhaps Little Black’s condition would be better—perhaps it would have recovered by now.

Not far away, the cabin glowed faintly, light seeping through the gaps in the branches.

He had carried many things from the ship into my cabin that day; now it had become his domain.

The light wasn’t from a fire. Clearly, he had found a flashlight or something similar.

The sound of pounding—thud, thud, thud—pulsed through the illuminated cabin.

I didn’t know how long it went on, but suddenly, everything fell silent.

Then, abruptly, a burst of wild laughter exploded.

“Hahaha.” It was him, laughing.

I was certain he had been hammering at that suitcase, and he must have gotten what he wanted—hence his excitement, his loss of composure.

Soon, though, the light in the cabin went out, and silence returned.

Tonight, as always, I felt no trace of sleepiness. I had a single bottle of water—the only thing I’d managed to bring back from the ship’s cabin.

From time to time, I pried open Little Black’s jaws and poured a little water in. Without water, it wouldn’t last much longer, and I couldn’t bear to see that happen.

Now that the plan with the hallucination berries was ready, I could hardly wait for dawn. As soon as the sky brightened, I would search for those berries.

If he demanded that I taste them first, eating one wouldn’t matter; they were delicious, and I was sure he’d like them.

As long as he ate them, success would be almost assured.

It was almost laughable—how I used to wish and pray for another human to come, someone to talk to, someone to share the struggle for survival.

Yet, the one who came was a murderer, and I had witnessed him kill with my own eyes.

It left me both frustrated and disappointed. Even this small hope had been crushed. Now, I wished for nothing more than for Little Black to recover...