Chapter 3
Lily
Night, dead and vacant, wraps around me. Chokes me.
Stop, stop, stop! I try to scream through the salty hand covering my mouth.
Fury withers under my skin. Pain. There’s so much pain, a drought of promised pleasure.
Torn and dirty, my clothes lay beside me, shredded on the squishy, moss-covered forest floor. Above me, eyes so dark—oily pits void of emotion except for a flash—no, a gleam of satisfaction. Take, take, take, they seem to say.
Hope soars out of reach, like a rose buried in thorns. Extending a hand toward it cuts and snags the skin, ripping into flesh. Pine trees spin in my peripheral—such beauty twisted into endless cruelty. Dried tears cling to the corners of my eyes as I struggle to push the suffocating weight off me.
It hurts. It hurts, please stop. It’s what I mean to yell, what I want to plead, but I can’t. Only a shaky whimper releases as I continue to push. Get off.
Hands bat mine away as I attempt to claw at the solid muscle looming over me.
Get off.
Get off—
I startle awake with a horn blaring close by. It’s only after a quick glance down I make the connection. It’s me, arm extended, elbow locked and laying on my car’s horn.
With a jerk, I yank my hand away, silencing the disturbance garnering attention from the early morning gym goers. I flip off a bulky man giving me the curled lip of disgust in his too-tight gym shorts and muscle tee before reaching for my phone to check the time. 6:19 a.m.
I’ve worked the late-night shift at the diner the past three nights.
It closes at midnight, but after cleaning up and prepping for the morning shift, I didn’t make it to the gym parking lot until after 1 a.m. I was too tired to pull out my bedroll and pillow in the back, so I reclined the driver’s seat the best I could and passed out. Clearly, that wasn’t the best idea.
Typically, my nightmares manifest when I don’t get a decent night’s sleep, but who am I kidding—I haven’t had a solid sleep for six years.
I swallow, repressing the thoughts of my haunting dream.
The parking lot is mostly empty, a few early morning cars scattered under the orange glow of the gym’s sign.
I glance around one last time, making sure no one is watching as I climb over the front console and snatch an overstuffed worn-canvas duffel from my back seat.
I unzip it, checking to make sure my clean hiking clothes are in there.
Leggings, a tank, and another secondhand sweater lie under my small pouch of toiletries.
Quickly, I run a hand through my tangled hair, pushing it out of my face before glancing at the rearview mirror.
Dark circles cling beneath my red glassy eyes that I’m hoping a hot shower will fix.
With a sigh, I step out of the car. Brisk air bites at my skin as I sling the bag over my shoulder and twist down the knee-length collared dress I’m forced to wear at the Pinebrook Diner.
The pale blue is a perfect match to the awning above the entrance.
It’s embarrassing, but I’ve worked in worse places.
Like that one retro drive-in where I had to wear roller skates during each shift.
I had bruised ass cheeks for weeks after I started.
Even though I’m a paying member, my heart still races as I walk toward the entrance. Worrying over whether they’ve noticed I’ve been camped out in their parking lot all night again agitates my stomach, and I clutch the strap of my duffel.
Once inside, harsh fluorescent lights blind me for a moment.
I blink away the blur and scan in, then pass the bored-looking attendant who doesn’t glance up from his phone.
I don’t linger. Don’t give him a chance to strike up conversation or ask why I come here several times a week yet never work out.
Head down, eyes forward, I coach myself. Act like you’re just another person here for a morning sweat session.
Thankfully, the locker room is empty, and I dump my bag in a corner by a row of lockers.
I gather my things, a fresh towel in one hand, toiletries in the other, and make my way to the shower stalls.
While the water sputters to life with a hiss and steam rises, I peel off my uniform and relish the cool tile against my bare feet.
Stepping under the spray, I close my eyes and let the hot water wash over the diner stench from the last two days.
The cheap shampoo from the dollar store foams more than expected, but I don’t care.
I scrub the grease and grime out of my hair, taking time to relax my tired muscles.
I replay the list over in my mind and make plans for my next hike when I’m finished since I have the day off. Plus, it’s a special day.
When I step out and look in the nearby mirror, my skin is pink from the heat. I’m lighter, cleaner—the intensity of my night terror finally gone.
The worn towel I use to dry off is crunchy since it’s limited to air-drying only.
The local laundromat had a flooding issue with several broken washing machines last week, and they closed the store until it’s fixed.
So far, they haven’t made the repairs, and I’m living on borrowed time. Or at least my dirty clothes are.
I pull on my outfit, give my wet hair a shake, and drag a comb through the mess. Not perfect, but I almost pass for human again.
After collecting my items and filling my water bottle for my hike, I creep toward the front entrance and grab an apple from the fresh bowl of fruit they keep out for members. When I make it to my car, I set out for the park.
The drive is congested, more than the average weekday.
Since it’s Friday, hikers and tourists from neighboring towns have made their way to explore the many trails, whether to hike, ride, or climb.
Too many. There are too many people. A rising well of emotion causes my leg to bounce.
I hope I can find a private place to write. You need to write.
Traffic thins out when I finally make it to Arch Rock Entrance. The narrow road winds through the forested landscape framed by the natural rock arch. It’s impressive, and it never gets old driving through the massive boulder stacked over the roadway.
I plan to do the Four Mile Trail to Glacier Point today with a stop or two along the way to some of the lookouts, but when I reach the trailhead, dark brooding clouds cut across the sky, swollen an inky gray.
A couple of hikers raise a hand in a wave as they jog to their car before I get out. An older man—though he looks like he’s Olympically trained—is starting the trail. See. The weather won’t be that bad, perhaps even blow over.
I throw my windbreaker on as the chill of the fall air stings my cheeks, and I dig through my bag to hunt for my reversible wool headband to slide up and over my ears.
With a final double-check to my gear, I toss in the blueberry muffin my boss handed me last night along with the single pink candle and match wrapped in plastic.
The paper bag crinkles between my water bottle and the extra sweater in my bag, and I smile.
“Happy Birthday, Lily. Make a wish on one of your hikes,” he’d said.
At first, I was annoyed that he somehow discovered my birthday. That was until he told me he had it from my employee paperwork, and I let it go.
I’ve made it a habit over my nomadic years not to get close to people. A birthday is one of those threads of connection that can make a six-month stay feel too short. That’s not for me—that’s not me.
The sharp earthy scent of rain whips through the air, but I strike out anyway, patting the small notebook in my jacket pocket. After my nightmare, the words have compounded in my mind, and I’m hoping the rain holds off long enough for me to dump them on a page.
Dirt and gravel kick up underneath my boots as I zigzag through the switchbacks, and the bitter air tightens my lungs with the incline.
As I continue up, a few hikers make their way back down.
Whether they hiked the trail to Glacier Point or were dropped off by the shuttle that makes the rounds, I’m not sure.
About two miles in, the view of Upper Yosemite Falls renders me breathless. Silvery water plunges over the granite cliffs and thunders into the valley below, and I rest on a rock lost in the grandeur of it all as a distant rumble echoes closer.
Light continues to seep away, replaced by bruised clouds bleeding deep purples and blues. Memories of a similar color blooming across my ribs like a wash of watercolor, and the blend fading into uneven swirls of soreness, sweeps through my mind. I shiver.
Skin the fragile canvas that he paints …
I dig out my notebook. My chest tightens as I shuffle to a boulder on the edge of the trail, looking over the darkened valley below. Scribbling down the words striking me like a blow, I lose myself—submit to the muse some would say.
There isn’t a sense of joy. No elation. No success. Memories paralyze my mind as I slump over my notebook, hands red with cold.
I’m powerless and pray I don’t break.
Time passes, and when I look up from my messy handwriting, I’ve filled page after page in my notebook.
My hands tremble and I turn them up, staring at my palms. I inhale, but it’s a wavering gasp that pivots into a shallow sob.
With a glance around, I grab for my backpack and remove the crumpled paper bag with my blueberry muffin.
Next, I unwrap the candle and matchstick before balancing the muffin on one of my tucked-in knees.
Despite the crisp air at this elevation, the waft of sweet blueberries catches on the breeze, and my mouth waters.
I press the candle into the muffin and nestle it into the soft center.
Striking the match on a boulder, I cup a hand around the flame and watch it dance before carefully tapping it to the wick.
The candle flickers in the wind, and I shield it the best I can.
More thunder cracks with a rumbling roar that shakes the ground, and I close my eyes. With a soft exhale, I blow out the flame, watching the wisp of smoke tangle up and out.
“Happy Birthday,” I whisper.