Chapter 12
Seraphina
Irun through the shrubbery and underbrush, the thorns scratching and pulling at my legs. Branches, wet from the cold morning drizzle that continues to flutter down on my skin, chilling me far more than any storm would, drag against my skin, and sharp pebbles tear at my bare feet.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Why couldn’t I have put on my sneakers? But my fingers were trembling far too much to tie the laces of my one pair of shoes. It was all I could do to slip into an oversized shirt, knowing someone was waiting for me outside, ready to hunt me down and kill me.
I hesitated for a minute to stay inside, but only for a minute. After all, whoever was sent to end my life managed to get inside the locked house while I was in it, and place that massive teddy bear just feet away from me as I slept.
I’m not safe in that house. I’m not safe here in the forest either, but I just can’t seem to wait passively for my fate.
I continue to run through the forest, panting, cold terror invading me.
I have no idea where I’m going, and I vaguely realize that there are probably wild animals in this forest. Predators who may mistake me for prey and kill me.
But the only predator I’m afraid of is the one who is chasing me.
I can’t bear the thought that I will die dressed in nothing but this oversize shirt. Will Damien know I was wearing it? Will the killer tell him? Will he cover me, so that the shirt doesn’t ride up and reveal my most intimate parts?
Damien wouldn’t want them to see, I think. I hope. The truth is, I have no idea what Damien wants, apart from my death. He was so possessive, so overprotective, yet now he sends a killer after me, someone who is chasing me as I run half-naked in the forest.
But I should know by now he doesn’t give a shit. It’s just that I still can’t make it sink in.
At this point, I’m pretty much out of breath.
I realize just how much these past months have taken a toll on me.
My body, starved for food and sleep, is sorely lacking in endurance.
Yet I just can’t seem to do anything but keep going, my chest compressed in pain, my legs shaking under the strain, until I stop, frozen in my tracks.
Just a few feet beyond me, two glittering yellow eyes are staring at me.
I don’t know what animal they belong to, but I can tell it’s a large one. And it’s gazing straight at me, with the kind of sly, hungry air of something that’s just found its dinner.
A dry branch snaps as it approaches, and I see its thick, furry hide, and the glinting, sharp teeth of a mouth, cracked open into a grin.
Goosebumps pebble on my back and arms, even as I remember the entry on coyotes in the animal encyclopedia that was once my prized possession.
I had spent most of my time looking at jellyfish and polar bears, but since that encyclopedia and my Peter Pan storybook were the only books I owned, I read them both countless times.
I’m pretty sure I can still recite all the text in each of them by memory.
Coyote attacks are rare… coyote attacks are rare…
I repeat that little refrain, but break it off as I notice the four little fur balls at the coyote’s feet.
Coyote attacks are rare… except when they’re protecting their young…
Coyotes sometimes attack children, whom they see as more vulnerable…
I don’t know if that coyote imagines I’m a child, what with my shrinking stature, or if it believes its own children to be in danger, but what I’m sure of, as I stare into those yellow eyes, is that it’s about two seconds away from attacking me.
I wonder idly if being ripped apart by a coyote would be more painful than whatever the killer has planned for me.
A second later, I jump as a loud detonation erupts in the forest. I inhale sharply, then bring my hands to my chest and stomach, searching for the bullet. There is none. But I hear the sound of a heavy body hitting the dirt, and I realize the coyote’s been hit.
The killer saved me.
I don’t even have time to figure it out. Before I know it, I’m running again, and now, my breathing is audible, loud wheezing punctuated by little strangled sobs and groans.
Of course: he saved me because he wants to be the one to kill me. He probably wouldn’t get paid by Damien if…
That thought is interrupted abruptly as two hands grasp at my legs, pulling me down forcefully onto the ground. I feel the heavy weight of a person throwing himself on my thighs, pinning them down beneath him, and a moment later, two arms press themselves violently around my waist.
I struggle for a few moments, flailing around uselessly, panting harder than ever, before the person brings his face to my neck, and inhales.
It’s Damien. Oh, my God. It’s Damien.
I would know his scent anywhere. That faint fragrance of cedar cologne mingling with his muskiness. I close my eyes and breathe it in, even as my heart breaks anew.
He flips me over onto my back and stares at me, still sitting on my legs, his arms pinning mine to the ground.
“Fight me,” he growls.
I shake my head, tears pricking in my eyes.
“I said,” he shouts, “fight me!”
He closes a hand over my neck and presses down.
I gasp, trying to breathe in air, but he’s constricting my air flow.
White spots edge into my vision, and soon I’m nearly blind, wondering if this is how I will go, strangled to death by the man I love.
At the thought, a tear spills out of my eye, then another one.
He lets me go then, only to slide his hand down to my chin, grabbing my cheeks hard and pressing them together. I take in little spurts of oxygen, my vision clearing at last.
“Speak, then,” he thunders. “Say something!”
But it’s impossible. My voice is lost under heavy layers of sadness and loss. I haven’t said a word in nearly eight months.
More tears bubble up in my eyes, and his own flash angrily. He flips me around again, so that my mouth is in the dirt, and panic coils in my chest as I breathe it in.
I can’t bear to be buried again. I can’t bear it.
But he doesn’t seem to want to kill me. At least, not yet. He rakes his hands over me possessively, clawing at me, leaving red streaks all over my skin. He grabs a fistful of my hair and snaps my head back, breathing me in as though he can’t get enough of me.
“What is this?” he spits out, noticing the shirt I’m wearing for the first time.
“You have no right to wear my clothes.” He drags it up as though he means to wrangle it off me, but he pauses.
He must have noticed I wasn’t wearing panties, because I feel his stiffness against my thigh, and he reaches out a hand to grip my left bottom cheek harshly.
“Too fucking skinny,” he grimaces to himself.
Then he lets go of me, pushing me into the dirt, causing me to whimper in fright. But he doesn’t pay me any attention.
“I’m going to make you wish you’d never been born,” he utters, and a second later, I hear the sliding of leather through denim. He’s removed his belt, and I know what that means, even before it comes down on me.
He strikes me again and again, and the beltings I twice received at his hands are nothing compared to this.
Each blow is white-hot, and I don’t have to look to know they leave angry red stripes all over my bottom, lower back and thighs.
They rain down on me, and I barely have time to register one swat before the next one burns me.
Before long I’m squirming, dancing under the blows, trying to protect myself, trying to scurry away.
If anything, my wriggling excites him, or at least, it satisfies him in some dark way, because he whips me even harder, his foot pressing down on my back, keeping me there.
He doesn’t care that my hands repeatedly move backward, trying to protect myself. He only hits them too.
At last, he stops. I hear loud, wracking sobs that seem to shake the forest floor, and I’m embarrassed to realize they come from me. They’re the only sound I hear for a long time. But finally, the pain subsides enough for me to be able to raise a trembling head, and I discover he’s gone.
Slowly, I rise to my feet, my entire body shaking with pain and exhaustion.
I begin to hobble back to my house, realizing for the first time just how far I ran.
Pink streaks from the rising sun thread through the forest, the chilly morning drizzle sparkling in the glow, making a surreal scene that feels at odds with my bleeding, sweaty body.
I walk slowly, each step making me wince in pain.
By the time I’ve returned to the house the sun is high in the sky.
I hesitate in front of the door. He must have a double of my keys. I’m not safe from him inside. But I’m not safe from him outside either. And anyway, I’m not sure I want to be.
I enter the house, straining from the effort. I’m so looking forward to collapsing in my bed that it takes me a moment to notice it.
The plate of food on the coffee table in my living room. The table I use for eating, on the rare occasions that I eat.
There are eggs, bacon and a slice of buttered toast. Next to the plate, a note with a single word, written in red marker:
Eat.
Through the cracked-open door leading into the kitchen, I spot my frying pan, drying on the rack next to the sink.
While I was lying on the forest floor, a sobbing, bleeding mess, Damien was in my house, cooking me breakfast.
The dissonance of it takes my breath away. A feeble wave of anger rises in my throat. If I weren’t so broken, I’d be furious. He doesn’t even have enough respect for me to kill me swiftly. He draws it out, humiliates me. I wish I had the strength to fight him.
But I don’t. Fear, not of him, not really, but of more pain, takes the fore. I’ve never been scared by the threat of physical pain before. But right now, I’m terrified.
So I obey. Kneeling in front of the table, because sitting would hurt far too much, I gingerly take the fork set beside the plate, and begin to shovel the food into my mouth.