Page 1 of Wrecked By the Mountain Man
Chapter 1
Edward
The familiar ache in my chest tightens with the approach of another goddamn storm.
Not that it matters.
One day blurs into the next in this mountain purgatory, each one a carbon copy of the last. Just me, the unforgiving silence, and the ghosts whispering their sweet nothings in my ear.
Today feels heavier, though. The air is thick and oppressive, smelling of pine and impending doom, a fitting backdrop for the slow, agonizing end I am so expertly orchestrating for myself.
I scrape the last remnants of oatmeal from the bottom of the pot, the mundane act a stark contrast to the swirling chaos inside my head.
PTSD.
That’s what they called it.
A pretty little acronym for the invisible shrapnel embedded in my soul, tearing me apart from the inside out.
My custom-built cabin, perched precariously on this desolate mountainside, is supposed to be my sanctuary. My eternal tomb, more like it. I’ve built it with my own hands, each timber a testament to a life I am trying to outrun, a life that refuses to let go.
The rough-hewn beams, the sturdy stone fireplace – they are supposed to be walls against the world, not reflections of the prison I’ve built around myself.
The truth is, I’m not living; I’m just existing, marking time until the mountain finally decides to swallow me whole.
It is a damn sight more appealing than the alternative: fighting battles no one else can see, replaying horrors no one else can understand.
The war might be over, but it rages on in here, a never-ending loop of screams and chaos. I’ve come to terms with it. Accepted it, even..
There is no going back from what I’ve seen or what I’ve done.
There’s no redemption. No peace.
Just… this.
A sudden, fierce gust of wind rattles the cabin, the glass in the window protesting with a groan. The sky outside turns an ominous, bruised purple, the kind that screams trouble.
Not just any trouble, but mountain trouble.
The kind that cuts you off, swallows you whole, and doesn’t spit you back out until it feels good and ready.Good. It suits my mood. Maybe it will finally be the one to rip these last few anchors from my grasp.
I fill my chipped ceramic mug with lukewarm tea, the bland taste a comfort in its very lack of sensation.
The storm intensifies, the wind a banshee wailing around the cabin, demanding entry.
Snow starts to fall, fat, heavy flakes coating the already rugged landscape in a rapidly thickening blanket of white. Soon, thismountain will be impassable, isolating me further from the small towns below.
Exactly as I prefer.
The silence, however, is about to be obliterated by the storm’s fury.
A rolling crack of thunder splits the air, the sound rare in a snowstorm like this, but I know better than anyone that these mountains breed their own kind of chaos around here. A jagged bolt of lightning flares white behind the snowfall, followed by a thunderclap so unexpected in winter that it steals my breath.
“Christ,” I grunt, staring ahead as the cabin almost sways in around me.
Another crack of thunder echoes, so loud it vibrates through the very floorboards, echoes down the valley, and makes the entire fucking cabin shudder.
I take another sip of my tea, trying to drown out the growing roar of the storm and the rising tide of my own anxiety.
