Natalya
Present
The wet soil crunches under my shoes, morning dew still clinging to it, soaking through the thin fabric of my clothes as I push deeper between the trees.
The manor is surrounded by thick woods, tall and ancient, still drowned in mist this early. The fog hangs low, softening shapes and making this whole place enchanting, almost unreal.
Only if it wasn’t for the constant sentry.
I’m so fucking sick of it.
The guarding, the watching, the careful voices and cautious movements, the way everyone keeps handling me like I might shatter if they breathe too close.
I finally snuck out alone.
Unless I smother my lungs with oxygen, I’ll snap. I can feel it building inside me and pressing outward. Everything around me is getting sharper and louder, like the world is turning the volume back up, inch by inch.
And I don’t want it.
I managed to push it all out before, to stay inside that quiet, insulated bubble where nothing could reach me. And now I can’t hold it anymore. It feels like someone is forcing memories and thoughts into my head against my will. Someone is standing right beside me, shoving them through my ear.
It’s so damn exhausting.
He was right, after all.
I guess I don’t want to deal with reality.
I run harder and faster, letting my legs burn and my calves tighten until every step hurts. The ground slopes unevenly, roots breaking through the soil, stones slick with moisture, but I don’t slow down. I welcome the risk. A twisted ankle would at least be something simple, physical and honest.
Eventually, my lungs betray me.
The sprint dissolves into a walk, chest heaving, breath ragged. I’m only a few minutes from the manor and I’m already soaked, but not from exertion. No. This isn’t about running. It’s about everything stacked inside my head, all the things I refuse to acknowledge. I just refuse to go there.
Part of me still believes I can outrun them. That if I strain my body hard enough, my mind won’t be able to keep up and it’ll lag behind, finally go quiet.
But every day, it works a little less.
I stop at the closest pine tree and lean my back against the trunk, the rough bark digging into my spine through the thin fabric of my running top.
The treetops spread out above me, dark green and towering. Water beads slide down needles and fall, cold drops landing on my face and neck.
It’s beautiful.
They’re still. Nothing is warping and nothing is changing shape. The world stays where it belongs, grounded in the scent of moss and cold morning fog.
It’s all there.
And still, none of it is enough to make my brain shut up.
Time is making sense again, and it’s deeply annoying.
The days have stopped leaking into each other.
Suddenly my mind can’t stop counting. Minutes, hours, days, nights, mornings, meals.
Everything comes with a label attached to it, impossible to ignore.
I wake up knowing exactly where I am before I even open my eyes.
The ceiling stays where it belongs. It doesn’t drift or warp or breathe.
Suddenly I have all this mental capacity left over for the very things I was so desperately trying to avoid.
Everything is just so fucking annoying.
Kiara watches me too carefully. She thinks I don’t notice, but I do. I notice everything now. The way she pauses before saying certain names.
Their names.
The way she looks at my face instead of my eyes, waiting for a reaction that never comes.
It’s the same with the doctor. She thinks I don’t see how she’s slowly pushing information in my direction, nudging it closer and closer until it’s almost unavoidable.
But I never react. I let it pass through me without comment.
I let them think I’m broken. It’s easier that way.
In fact, I’m not broken or fragile. I’m actually starting to get really pissed.
I should start locking myself in, locking him out of my room, out of my head, out of my immediate proximity. Closing doors and creating rules and drawing invisible lines I can pretend would hold.
But it won’t help.
I know he’s there.
Every day I know it a little more clearly, more undeniably, and with every breath I take it becomes more unbearable.
Even without seeing him or talking to him, still, it’s as if the entire house is saturated with him, like the walls themselves are carrying him and pressing him into my skin, translating him into sensation or into awareness.
Dealing with whether he was a dream or an illusion was easier. Painful, but familiar.
But now it’s just him. Everywhere and very much real. And I don’t know how to work with that. There’s no questioning reality anymore, only being overwhelmed by it.
My fingers dig into the tree behind me, silently begging the tree to pull me out of this spiral and to swallow me whole. I want to dissolve. I want to become a lichen clinging to its roots and live quietly in this forest forever.
I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to feel all of this.
Turning around, I let my forehead fall against the trunk, accepting the roughness pressing into my face. My breath turns shallow and uneven again. It nearly feels like a panic attack.
But it’s not that. I know what panic feels like. This is different.
A low sound escapes me, half-grunt, half-groan, swallowed by the empty forest. I’m trying to cry, or force a collapse, or break myself open so something, anything, can spill out and end this pressure, but nothing happens.
No panic attack. No breakdown. No collapse. No release.
It’s him.
He’s doing something to me. It feels like some kind of fucked-up voodoo. Like he’s lighting a slow burn deep in my lower stomach from far away, threading heat into me without ever touching me.
And the worst part is—my body responds.
With tension that keeps climbing without breaking. Like standing on the edge of something and never quite being pushed over. That’s it. The strange, crawling sensation of being poised on a vast cliff, wanting to leap, feeling the pull, and still being unable to take that final step.
My thighs tense, my stomach as well. My body is remembering something my mind hasn’t agreed to yet.
“Stop,” I whisper pathetically to myself.
Nothing stops.
I hate how aware I suddenly am of my own body and of the space between my ribs. It’s like he’s standing just out of reach, not touching, not speaking, just existing close enough to be felt and to undo me.
Whatever is happening to me, it feels like something between a panic attack, anger, and edging. As if my body can’t decide if it wants to collapse, kill someone or come to climax.
A twig snaps somewhere to my left.
My hands react before my brain does. The weight under my sports bra shifts as my hand dives instinctively, fingers closing around cold metal. One sharp movement and the gun is out, arm extended, breath locked in place as I aim straight between the trees.
“Don’t,” I warn, voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my veins.
And it’s him.
Hands loose at his sides, no rush and no tension. His gaze flicks from my face to the gun and back again, unimpressed, almost fond.
Fine.
I don’t lower it. My grip tightens instead.
And as I see him, the confusion from a minute ago clears itself right away.
I want all of the above.
Collapse, kill, climax. All of it. I don’t care about the order.
Okay, killing him should be logical to do after the… whatever. Actually, is it possible all at once? I’d very much like exactly that.
I quickly scan him up and down, then shove those ideas away before I start acting on them.
“Stop following me,” I snap firmly. “I can take care of myself.”
My eyes flick to the gun, still aimed at him, a visual underline to the sentence.
“I know you can,” he says calmly, completely unbothered and slightly delighted, whether by the fact that he’s seeing me again or by the fact that I just pulled a gun out of my running bra.
He takes a step closer, measured but sure of himself, like he already knows how this ends.
My grip loosens, of course. I’m not going to kill him. That would be ironic. I haven’t even processed that he’s alive yet. And I don’t want to, actually.
He doesn’t break eye contact even for a second, steps closer, and reaches for the gun in my hand, slowly taking it away from me with practiced professional movement.
His fingers hover just above mine as he gently loosens my grip around the metal, peeling it away like he’s disarming something fragile, not dangerous.
The touch alone is driving me insane. I melt instantly, of course, I’m only human.
And even though he’s haunting me, he’s also a human. I know that now. Very much a solid, real, alive, and even more unbearably beautiful human than before. The fog lingering around him is making him look carved out of heaven itself.
“Where did you get this,” he asks quietly, as if he’s still not sure how to behave around me.
“Stole it from one of the guys in that dungeon of yours,” I admit, a little too proudly.
He chuckles under his breath.
“Idiots,” he mutters, seeming proud of me as well, before quickly checking the magazine and tucking the gun behind the back of his belt with practiced ease.
And then we just stand there.
My breathing accelerates. The sports clothes suddenly feel too tight and clingy, like they’re conspiring against me. Sweat slides down my cleavage, disappearing between my breasts like a pathetic, undeniable confirmation of just how fucked-up I am right now.
Neither of us looks away.
The woods seem to shrink around us, the mist thickening, trees closing in like they’re quietly sealing us off from the rest of the world. Like this moment, whatever it’s about to become, belongs only to us now.
All the pressure inside me spills downward, sinking into my stomach where it lingers like a sickness.
The butterflies there are going feral. Some of them have burning wings, scorching everything they touch.
Some flutter helplessly, unable to lift off the ground.
Others tear through me like maniacs, begging for something I don’t know how to give.
It’s pure apocalypse in there.