The Forest Church
By: Joel Wukotich
I feel the way it must, standing in an icy Norwegian forest, limbs quivering despite having taken extra steps to avoid the chill. Moonlight notwithstanding, pitch-black shards of loneliness blind and appall, which I may have gotten used to by now, had it not been for the decades I’ve ignored any of the light passed my way. By strangers or friends. The thickness of the mud in my mind has hardened with age, perverse in a selfish eagerness to exist. This is how I feel on the inside, daily, while dressed in the prettiest skin money can buy… and some I’ve stolen from the ones who love me most. Nothing but its complexion is fair.
The cold bites. I thought I was prepared for this, but standing here, I realize it’s impossible to fully brace myself against this chill. It’s the kind that seeps in slowly, spilling over into gnawing loneliness. And then I hear it—faint and unmistakable. The distant echo of heavy metal, blackened and frozen, as familiar as my own heartbeat. I’ve played that song a thousand times. Each note reminds me of the darkness I’ve tried so hard to shake off.
With every revolution, I return to the cramped, shadowy room where I first heard it. Surviving by the glow of a computer screen. A bottle always within reach, its weight an unhealthy comfort. The music was my only friend then–its raw, iciness spoke to something deep within, something I couldn’t put into words. It blended with the bleakness. A sense that I didn’t belong in the skin I was born in. Even after giving up the alcohol, the music stayed, a constant reminder of where I’ve been and how far I still have to go.
The trees around me now lean in, their branches outstretched like skeleton fingers. They know my secrets. A living forest of mirrors mocks my inner turmoil, and I can feel the weight of the mud in my mind. The woodlands aren’t just around me; they’re in me. Stabbing. The darkness is in every step and every breath.
But music is a blanket of endearing memory, asking proper questions. What am I trying to avoid? Does such avoidance define me, keeping me trudging through the dirt, or is there a way out? It’s not an easy choice. The cold, the loneliness—they’re all I’ve known for so long. But maybe there’s a path out of this forest, a way to reach the light I so often see peeking through the timberline. I let the wind press on, daring me to commit. And I know this must be done.
As I stand, the wind presses me to move. A lashing cat’s paw. I take a step forward, ready to leave the forest behind. But as I do, the trees shift. Branches twist into grotesque shapes, forming an uncharted path. A figure emerges from the shadows—a creature born of the darkness. Its form is indistinct, constantly shifting. Not entirely human. Not entirely beast. A manifestation of deep fear and regret.
“Why do you run from me?” it asks. Its voice echoes through the trees. “You think the light will save you, but look deeper. You know better, don’t you? You have lived in the light, and what has it brought you but pain? Guilt. The cold, empty promise that things will soon improve. If you keep on walking. Keep on dreaming. Keep on. Keep on. But you never arrive.”
I freeze. I’ve heard this before, though I’ve tried to ignore it. The light has always seemed like the answer, but has it ever truly brought me peace? In ways, perhaps, but not like the music. It wasn’t about seeking the light—it was about accepting the darkness, finding a place where I belonged, where I wasn’t judged for the shadows that lingered within.
As I stare at the creature, the forest around me shifts again. The path ahead, the one that seemed to lead to the light, starts to crumble, revealing jagged rocks and thorny undergrowth. I know it’s not an easy path, but I am not afraid. The creature’s bridleway leads deeper into the forest, getting clearer as I approach. There’s a comfort in it. An understanding that maybe the darkness isn’t something to be feared or escaped.
I take a step toward the creature, and the sludge in my mind loosens. Just a little. There is music in the distance. Another step and it grows louder, more distinct. It’s guiding me. It’s not a song of hope or salvation—it’s a song of acceptance. A reminder that the world isn’t just light and darkness, good and bad. It’s both. Intertwined. To deny one is to deny a part of myself.
The creature watches me, its form still shifting, but its eyes have no malice. It’s a part of me, just as much as the light I’ve been chasing. I realize now that my journey isn’t about decamping the abyss but about embracing it and understanding that it’s not inherently bad. The light can be blinding, exposing too much, forcing me to confront things I’m not ready to look at. But the darkness…allows me to breathe, to exist without the constant pressure to change, to be something I’m not.
I continue walking, not toward the light, but alongside the beast, deeper into the forest. The music swells, and I feel a sense of peace for the first time in a long while. Not because I’ve found the light but because I’ve stopped running from the dark. The forest is still cold and lonely, but not the enemy. It’s simply a part of me. Deep shades of grey on green float on the aroma of a river, and a breeze helps announce the presence of a fire. Downstream. Far away but warming. Alongside the forest beast, I tell myself it’s safe to rest.
Joel Wukotich has previously published articles and creative work in various outlets, including Toledo Area Parent, Devoted to Vinyl, and The Metal Wanderlust. His background as a writer and adjunct professor of English at Tiffin University has provided him with a solid foundation in crafting stories that are both engaging and meaningful.IG | Facebook | LinkedIn | JournoPortfolio