Montana

Montana sat on a large rock on the shore of her favorite lake. Her thoughts were wandering from here to there, settling on nothing. Next to her was her deer-skin flask, a gutted fish, her obsidian knife, and her hand-made fishing pole. When you are by yourself there just isn’t much to think about, she thought.
The sky was dimming and some stars had started to appear. Montana got up and gathered some wood, then set up a log-cabin style fire with pine needles for tinder. She took out her flint and steel and got the fire going in a matter of seconds. The process was old hat for her. The fire going, she got up again to find some suitable leaves, wrapped her salmon, and put it in the fire. When the leaves were burned up, the salmon was ready. She washed her hands in the lake, and then ate the fish. It was good, but the same as it tasted every other night. On odd days, she would eat some berries and tubers, but fish was her staple. It was the easiest. Dig a few worms, hook, drop line, wait, yank, pull, gut, cook. Easy. Same.
“Montana,” a voice said. She jumped, spinning around to find the source of the voice. Nobody there. But she knew that voice. She forced the memories out, filling her mind with peaceful thoughts of her beautiful surroundings. “I just want to talk to you,” came the voice.
“Go away,” she said, trying for toughness, but she already knew she would lose.
“Why are you here?”
“I said go away.”
“Come home, Montana.”
“No.”
“Montana.”
“Leave me alone. I like it here.”
“Why did you leave me?” she shuddered at the memories swimming in front of her.
“I … I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why did you leave me?”
“I had no other choice! Go away! GO AWAY!”
“NO! Not until you tell me why you left.”
“Never,” by now Montana was on the ground, writhing in emotional pain, hands to her ears, trying to block out the voice, but somehow compelled to answer each time it spoke.
“Please, Montana. Remember? Do you remember? The swing, Montana, the swing. The kids. They’re so lonely now. Come back”
Montana started crying. She pounded her fists into the soft ground, one, then the other, the other, the other, over and over, pound, pound, pound, each with a burst of sobs and a river of tears.
“Montana,” the voice said, fading into the distance.
Montana’s tears slowly faded, too, and her pounding fists slowed, and then she curled her arms into herself, her legs following suit. She lay there, in fetal position, occasional sobbing, crying herself to sleep.