"Fuck." My blood was staining the small wood cutting knife. I sucked my thumb as I paused carving the tree.

Why did I tend to my skin? Just hours ago I was hiking up woods I'd never been in. I stepped ankle-deep into sea water without care. I kept repeating the words "What are you afraid of? Dying?" God, there's nothing that scares me now.

I continued carving again. My phone buzzed with another text which I promptly ignored.

It's funny how little you care when you stop attaching yourself to mortality. Nothing care harm you if you want to be hurt.

I stepped back to look at my name etched on the sycamore tree. "That was pointless." I mumbled.