..::PING PONG::..
There was so much to say when there were no words. It was, of course, shockingly easy for him to keep a secret, when he rarely spoke. It's also equally easy to blend into the background and be forgotten about.
For years, he had been living in a silent world, the only sound being that of the animals he surrounded himself with, first at his childhood home, then at his work as a forest ranger. There was nothing he adored more than roaming the woods. People called him the Deer Whisperer, and one even asked for an autograph after seeing him among the trees. He just shrugged with a small smile, continuing on his way, adjusting his jacket as he went.
He should have known something would change. He began to hear things differently, more acutely. He chalked it down to him simply not fully realising the silent cacophony of the forest. But when his head began to ache, almost leading him to collapse during a hike, he began to suspect something was off. Not wanting to go to a doctor and potentially waste his time, he settled for just taking a bunch of pain medicine and going on his way.
But when his sunhat didn't fit quite right a week later, and he reached up to his head and felt one-no, two-lumps, he began to panic.
No. He didn't panic about potential horns growing out of his head. He didn't freak out about that thing. He was simply just built different.
Nope. He was panicking, hands gripping his hair, curled up against a wall, near hyperventilating. What would happen to him now?? He certainly wouldn't be able to be out in public with horns growing out of his head. He called (ha) in sick for the remainder of the week, lying and telling his boss that he had a family emergency. His boss was considerate, and told him to take two weeks off, with pay. What a job.
Over the course of the week, he kept taking his pain medication, and watched in sheer horror as the small nubbins grew taller by at least three inches, even sprouting a small little point. They were sensitive, and he could actually feel whatever touched them. He sat in front of the mirror one day and let loose a hoarse, hysterical laugh. He had antlers. Antlers. What had his life come to?
Oh, no. How would he ever be able to go back to work like this? How would he ever be able to live like this? He considered slicing off the antlers, but even thinking about how badly that would hurt made his stomach roil. He settled for grabbing a bright blue beanie, and fighting his antlers through two carefully-cut holes. There. It looked enough like a funny thing that he would probably wear on any normal day that he could get away with. The only problem was what would happen when they were clearly growing taller and longer.
He went back to work, and actually received a couple of compliments on his "cool hat" and "where he got it." Both times, he just shrugged. He wasn't even sure his coworkers knew his name. The growth slowed down over the span of a couple months, and he kept wearing that beanie. His coworkers called him a furry, and he nearly laughed at how unironically accurate that statement was.
He thankfully managed to hide the fact that the antlers were growing out of his head, for about six months. Until he woke up one morning with blood on his pillow, and a stinging pain in his antlers. Scrambling for the mirror, he stared in disgust at the ribbons of fur hanging off his antlers. That disgust swiftly turned to mild panic. Great. He had started shedding velvet. He wasn't aware that was a thing he could do.
It took a month to shed it all. He decided to remove himself from it all, and quit his job, with much sadness, collecting his pay. He retreated far away, purchasing a small cabin in a faraway forest by a lake, removing himself from society, surrounding himself with the animals. He lost track of time. The clothes he had packed himself eventually wore away, and he sewed himself new ones out of the remains of the old. He couldn't bring himself to rip away the flowers that grew on his antlers, now large and twisting, beautiful spirals of bone, covered in patches with moss and small vines.
He never closed his door, allowing the forest to claim the building as its own. He never left his woods, and never hurt any animal that came within the clearing he now called his own. The animals knew that he was safe, and he was one of them. He was gentle, helping the ones that were hurt, making sure they felt comforted in his presence. He saw nobody, and communicated with nobody. He was wild, and he knew it. But he was peaceful, living with his own mind, and his own little world away from the main world. He didn't have a real bed, instead electing to sleep on a cushion of moss and leaves, warmed on all sides by whatever animal elected to come and stay with him.
He was peaceful. He was safe.
But he was lonely. A coldness settled over him after a while, and nothing could really change it. He missed his life before everything. He missed the chaos, the constant chatter wherever he went, replacing the silence that emanated from his every bone. But he knew, that if he ever showed his face again, he would be hunted, researched, picked apart. It was a terrifying existence, and he couldn't escape from it.
He was sad. That was the term for it. Nothing eloquent, just a deep, dark, unbearable sad. He was so deeply lonely, and his animals seemed to realise that, nudging at his hand, climbing into his lap, searching for a way to help him. He appreciated it, but it only made him hurt more. He was tired. Tired of life itself. There wasn't really anything left for him. His animals would manage without him, as they had before he'd arrived. He was strange. Inhuman. Alien. It was time for him to go.
He walked out into the forest, leaving his door open, as he always had. He couldn't close it now, the vines pinning it open. If someone stumbled upon the house, though, it wouldn't look abandoned. It would look lived-in. Somehow. He shook his head, antlers brushing the tree above him. Don't think about it.
He knew where the ravine was, and knew it well. He'd burned everything but his clothes in there, when he first arrived. Shoes and all, already given himself up to the wild. He stood at the edge, staring down at the lava bubbling at the bottom, wondering why this had happened to him.
Someone spoke. He wasn't afraid, strangely, just whirled around to stare at the man who stared right back, shotgun clasped in his hands.
The gun clicked.
It was like every nerve in his body reacted at once. Moving with speed he didn't know he possessed, he wrenched free from the man's grip, which wasn't that hard at all, and bolted into the forest, towards his home. The wind whirled past his ears, leaves and branches raking away at his clothes, his head bent slightly back so as not to risk getting his antlers stuck on anything. His home came into view, and he skidded to a stop, whirling around and staring out into the forest with wide eyes. Was it the wrong ravine? Must have been, no humans came this way.
Humans.
Why did he just call them that? Even now, he was referring to -- no. He couldn't have distanced himself that far so as to forget what he was. Could he? He sighed, the first real sound he had made in years. He needed to stay alone, because that was the only way he could survive. He burnt his shoes, burnt everything he loved.
He was alone, spinning down an eternal whirlpool, unable to see the end. That was the price he had to pay for being different. He tried to remember what it was like, to be truly human. Flashes passed by as he closed his eyes, too swift to remember. Like bubbles, each one popped, never to be seen again.
The trees called.
And the wild thing that once was named Callahan answered.
