The Excursionist

Eight hundred and seven.

I have been keeping count for so long that the numbers seem to have become part of me, permanently etched into my brain. The numbers are almost like a doomsday clock, but it's counting up. Always. Illimitable. Infinite.

I survey my surroundings. Yet another grassy plain. These are common. If I were any smarter, and knew any more about the tears, I would say that they prefer these verdant pastures over any other place.

That's not to say that I haven't encountered them in other places too. There have been tears in every single one of the eight hundred and six previous worlds I have been to, all in varying locations. After so long you do begin to notice patterns, however. I have been gathering information for so long, at least five hundred worlds now, patient and yet never letting go of my ultimate goal; to return to where I came from.

Patience was never something that came easy to me. They say that patience is a virtue, but initially patience was the last thing I wanted. In the beginning all I wanted was to take retribution, fuelled by rage and whatever food I could scavenge from the worlds I travelled to. I was blinded by the piercing red of vexation, hopping between worlds to no end.

Those days are a blur. A mess of tangled emotions in my memory. The virtue of patience is something I taught myself in the many days I spent traversing deserts, forests, oceans, plains like the one in which I stand.

Patience was not the only thing I learnt. I also taught myself the intricate art of locating the tears with nothing but my surroundings and my previous knowledge.

The tears are in every world. Unmistakable if you have stumbled across them before, and yet invisible to the average person. The blue orchids that sprout from the ground, the nauseating squeak that they give off, the memories that don't belong to you washing over your brain and, of course, the turquoise glow.

That turquoise glow.