Chapter 23
I remember thinking the forest was getting smaller.
Not physically, don’t twist it like that, it was the same trees, same ground, same stupid fucking path we kept wearing into the dirt without ever agreeing on it, but it felt smaller.
Like something was closing in without moving, like the air itself had started to thicken just enough that breathing took a second longer than it used to.
I didn’t say anything about it.
I stopped saying a lot of things around that time.
There was this web I kept walking past, don’t ask me how many times, I couldn’t tell you if it was days or weeks or if it was the same day repeating itself in slightly different ways, but it was always there.
Stretched between two low branches, just off to the side where most people wouldn’t notice it unless they were looking for it.
I always noticed it. It was anchored perfectly.
Not symmetrical, spiders don’t care about that, but it was balanced.
Every thread pulled where it needed to be, no wasted movement.
It didn’t question itself; it didn’t second-guess.
It just was.
And everything that touched it… stayed. I think that’s what got to me.
Not the web itself, not even the spider, I barely ever saw it, but the fact that once something was caught, it didn’t matter how much it struggled.
The more it moved, the worse it got. It wrapped itself tighter without even understanding how.
Zwierek started talking more. Or maybe he always had, and I just started hearing it differently, I don’t fucking know, but something shifted in the way his voice landed, like it didn’t just pass through me anymore, it stuck. Sometimes he’d sit too close, watching.
“You’re slower lately,” he said once, like he was commenting on something insignificant. I kept my eyes on the knife in my hand, didn’t even remember picking it up, if I’m being honest, and just… breathed. He leaned forward. “Elaborate,” I muttered.
“You take longer to understand things,” he said.
“Or maybe you just pretend you don’t.” That wasn’t even the worst part.
It was the way he said it, like it was already decided.
Like I didn’t get a say in it. I looked at him then.
Really looked. That scar in his brow had settled by that point, pulled the skin just slightly when he moved his face, like it was always there, reminding you of something you missed the first time around.
“You talk too much,” I told him.
He smiled. God, I fucking hated that smile sometimes.
“Only when you avoid answering,” he said. And then, just like that, his expression changed.
“You know what your problem is?” He kept talking, and it only made it worse. “You still think you’re something worth fixing.”
I stayed the same on the outside, but I felt something in my chest tighten.
“You think there’s a version of you that comes out of this clean,” he continued, watching me too closely, like he was waiting for it to land.
“Like if you just… survive long enough, it’ll mean something.” He tilted his head. “That’s pathetic.”
There it was. Placed exactly where it would hurt the most. And then, because he’s fucking sick like that, he softened. Like it never happened. Like he hadn’t just reached inside me and twisted something I didn’t even know was exposed. He leaned back, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed.
“Relax,” he muttered.
“You’re doing fine.”
Fine? I almost laughed.
I think I did.
I don’t remember.
You see what I mean, little Ghost? It didn’t make sense.
None of it did. He’d cut into me and then act like he was the one holding me together, like I needed him to stay standing, like I’d fall apart without him.
And maybe, maybe I would have. That’s the worst part.
I’d start doing something and finish it without remembering the middle.
I’d say something and hear it back from him later, like I hadn’t said it at all.
Or like he had. That one bothered me more than I let on.
I remember asking him something about it once.
Not directly, I’m not stupid, but close enough.
“Do you ever feel like things repeat?” I asked. He didn’t even look at me.
“No.”
And that was it. I didn’t ask anything else, and he didn’t ask back either.
Zwierek had always been the only one I could lean on, the only one I could rely on, but even that had started to blur.
I still trusted him, of course I did. What we had ran deeper than blood.
But the support that had always felt solid had started to feel unsteady.
Days kept folding into each other. The cabin felt different depending on when I looked at it.
Same walls, same table, same fucking floor that creaked in the exact same place, but sometimes it felt like a place we lived in, and other times it felt like something we were stuck inside.
Like it was holding us. Or just me. I stopped trying to decide. He brought it up again, out of nowhere.
“What now?”
I was sitting down, I think, and I remember the way the light hit the floor more than I remember how I got there.
“What do you mean?” I asked. He looked at me like I was wasting his time. “Who’s next?” Simple. Like we were picking up a conversation we’d already finished. I stared at him. Really tried to understand what he was asking.
“I’m not doing that,” I said. My voice sounded off to my own ears. Too distant. He smiled again. God. That fucking smile again.
“I didn’t say you were,” he replied.
“I asked who.”
“That’s the same thing, Zwierek.”
“Is it?” I exhaled, dragged a hand over my face.
“I’ve already told you, I’m not going on a fucking killing spree just because it excites you,” I snapped. And there it was, a flicker. He liked that. I could see it. “Excites me?” he repeated, almost laughing.
“That’s what you think this is?” He shook his head.
“You’re still lying to yourself.” And then, just like that, he changed direction again.
“I’ll find him.” I frowned.
“Find who?” He looked at me like I was stupid.
“Your father.” … No. No, that didn’t…
“What? We never talked about that,” I said on the spot, completely sure. He frowned. Actually frowned.
“Yes, we did.” “No,” I said. “You asked about the hospital.”
His expression hardened.
“What are you talking about?” he snapped.
“I never said that.” That, that’s where it slipped.
Because he didn’t hesitate, he didn’t look unsure; he looked certain.
And for a second, I wasn’t. I tried to replay it.
Tried to grab onto the conversation, place it somewhere solid.
But it… moved. Like it didn’t want to stay where I put it.
Like it didn't belong to me anymore. So I stopped. I just stopped. Because arguing meant trusting my memory, and I didn’t.
Not anymore. He saw it. The second I dropped it.
The second I let it go. His shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
Victory. Small, but there. “So?” he pressed, voice lower now.
“Do you want it or not?”
“Want what, Zwierek?” He leaned closer.
“Revenge.”
It sat there between us, heavy and familiar. And the worst part? The part I don’t like admitting? Is that something in me shifted.
I hate that you have to see me like this, little Ghost, I really do.
Because if anyone else looked at me the way you are right now, I’d break their fucking jaw for it, but you… you just sit there. Watching, understanding. You always understand more than you should, and I’m not used to that.
I need you, little Ghost. I need you to stay no matter how ugly this gets. I need you to not look away from me.
“I need to think,” I said finally. It sounded weak, I heard it, and so did he. He didn’t call it out; he didn’t have to. He just nodded slowly, like he already knew what I was going to decide before I did.
“Don’t take too long.”
And the thing is, I didn’t know if he was talking about my father, or something else at that point.
Tell me something, my little Ghost. If a web is built perfectly, if every thread is exactly where it’s supposed to be, at what point do you stop calling it a trap and start admitting it was made for you?