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WILLOW. twenty-three. pyromaniac. mentally unstable. survivor. ( pvromania​ ; don’t starve )

          her hands shook, fidgeting with the lighter she kept with her at all times, flicking it open and closed obsessively, a nervous habit she’d developed—— how long ago? she’d done it ever since her lighter had been given to her, many years ago.

          it was a source of comfort, a safety blanket. the only thing that had _stayed _with her in that forsaken island, along with the clothes on her back.

          ❝ you wouldn’t leave me, would you? ❞

          the lighter didn’t answer. of course it didn’t, it was an object, made of brass and flint and lighter fluid. she wasn’t expecting an answer, at any rate– but hearing her own voice had also become sort of a minor comfort, even if it meant talking to herself.

          whom else was she supposed to talk to, anyway? there were no other people, no one except for her and the odd skeleton, half-buried by dirt and sand, dead for so long that nature had taken it back and made it part of her again, as a home for her grass and smaller critters.

          the trek back to camp was a long one, but the journey had proved profitable. she returned with gems and gold, with meat and fish and berries to last her through the upcoming winter. the air grew cold, but the ponds had not yet frozen, she could still fish. and fish she did, gathering what she could carry back to camp before night fell.

          the former scout fell on her makeshift bed (barely more than a carpet covered by a blanket of beefalo hair, really) with an oomph after putting her supplies away, flopping back with her arms stretched out beside her, looking up at the darkening sky above her. after a long moment, she rolled over, reaching for a piece of parchment and charcoal, striking a horizontal line through four vertical ones.

          one hundred and five days.