Day Fifty: A New Discovery (Part Two) An Extra Chapter for Those Who Smooth Out the Rough Edges

"Damn it!"
Another bloodsucking insect clinging to my arm met its end with a slap. I've lost count of how many I've killed—tiny creatures I've never seen before.
They're even smaller than mosquitoes and swarm relentlessly, testing my patience.
Right now, I'm in a low-lying area of the forest, a place damp and uncertain—could it be a man-eating marsh? I dared not rush in blindly, so I cut a young sapling, using its long trunk as a guide to probe my path.
This place is far harder to traverse than I imagined. The depression covers a vast area; otherwise, I would have skirted it entirely. I move at a tortoise's pace, barely taking a step every ten minutes.
I wonder if all the rainwater from the forest ultimately drains into this lowland.
Mud, rotting leaves, swarms of insects—they accompany me constantly.
Each step sinks with a wet squelch, mud parting underfoot. As my foot descends, the fermenting gases rise, bubbling up in the mire, carrying with them a mix of rot, sourness, and stench that makes me shake my head in disgust.
It takes tremendous effort to pull my legs free. This watery mud clings with a suction, but thankfully the depression is only about fifty meters wide. If it were any larger, I doubt I'd have had the courage to cross.
With each step, I plunge the sapling deep ahead, wary of hidden pits below.
Even mud reaching only my calves requires all my strength to escape; I shudder to imagine falling into anything deeper.
Step by cautious step, I finally emerge unscathed.
"Whew."
Those fifty meters drained my strength; exhaustion presses me to lie down. After hacking off a few broad leaves from nearby trees, I collapse onto the ground.
The sun is almost invisible in the forest, only thin rays filtering through. Gusts of wind sweep the woods, and as I sit, soaked and resting, I feel a chill.
After a while, thirst gnaws at me. I scan my surroundings, searching for a water-bearing tree like the palm I found yesterday.
"Damn it!"
Just as I'm surveying the area, something catches my eye—a dense patch on my leg. My blood runs cold; chills sweep over me, and my skin crawls.
Leeches cover my legs, crowded together, blood trickling as they feast.
Goosebumps erupt all over me—not just my scalp, but my entire body tingles.
What now? This is terrifying! Please don't burrow into my skin...
I've only seen these creatures on television. They frightened me even then, and now, seeing so many at once, my mind turns to mush, refusing to function.
I freeze for several seconds, then force myself to overcome the visual shock and nausea, instinctively reaching to pull the leeches off.
But as my fingers approach their yellow-black, slimy bodies, my mind snaps back, rebooting like a computer, and pushes a memory to the forefront.
That memory stops my hand just in time.
Sweat beads roll down my face—cold and heavy. I nearly put myself in danger again.
From what I recall, leeches can't simply be pulled off; the more you tug, the deeper they burrow. Even if removed, their mouthparts might remain, leading to infection.
The best method is to burn them off.
But I have no fire!
What should I do? Panic rises. The sheer number overwhelms me; I feel faint and start to blame myself. Why did I come here at all? Wouldn't a peaceful life in the treehouse have been better?
Perhaps many people would react as I do—regret and self-reproach when trapped in such a situation.
Yet my mind races, searching my memory for other solutions.
Unfortunately, I find nothing.
The leeches, bloated with my blood, are now puffing up, their once flat bodies swollen.
What should I do?
Fear grips me.
Desperation forces me to act—passivity means certain death if they enter my body.
I reach out and gently tap around the leeches on my leg, hoping to dislodge them.
After several attempts, nothing happens; despair threatens to engulf me.
But just as I'm about to give up, the tapping works—several leeches near the area drop off!
There's hope!
Excitement floods me.
With continued tapping, more leeches fall, wriggling away, their bodies swollen with my blood. I pay them no mind; there are still many left.
Time passes, and eventually all the leeches are removed. I even find two stragglers on my chest and shoulder.
This ordeal reveals a trick: a firm, vibrating slap near their suckers makes leeches drop quickly.
Now, though, my legs are a horrifying sight. Blood still flows from dozens of tiny wounds, a gruesome display.
I decide to clean up—nearby stands a tree with clear water.
After splitting its trunk with my axe and drinking a few gulps, I use the flowing water to rinse my wounds.
Only after cleaning up does my anxiety subside a little.
That cursed depression is revolting—I refuse to retrace my steps.
Yet this presents a dilemma; I don't wish to spend the night in unfamiliar territory.
The sun is blocked by the dense canopy, making it hard to tell the time, but judging from the scattered rays, it can't be too late.
In the end, I choose a new direction, hoping to skirt the dreadful marsh. The leeches have left me traumatized; I dare not recall the experience.
As I walk, blood continues to seep from the wounds, though much slower now. Despite the frightening appearance, the total loss isn't great, so it doesn't affect me much physically.
I press on for an hour—perhaps two, by my own rough estimate—and finally, through the trees, I glimpse a broad, bright clearing ahead.
At last, I can leave this damn forest behind…