Cabin Fever

by K Larsen

  The flattened spoon was red-hot in the stove. He took a swig from the bottle for courage. I trust you, the three most perfect words that anyone can utter. His stomach churned at the mere thought of what he was about to do.

  “Hold still.”

  Nineteen

  Meghan

  Her scream tore through the cabin ferocious enough to tear the roof from the rafters. It wasn’t pain that made her holler, it was the burn she felt at the webbed base of her toe. She pulled the blanket from her face and stared at the exposed beams on the ceiling.

  It wasn’t pain, it was fear, she kept repeating to herself. She didn’t look at Tristan because she knew it was necessary to trust him completely. If she looked at him, it might remind her that she really didn’t know him all that well. Yet their level of intimacy had shot from zero-to-extreme considering the circumstances.

  When she kissed him, she’d done it as a thank you, as a goodbye, and as a conduit through which to release all of the pent-up tension both of them were feeling. She hadn’t planned the kiss, she was driven by instinct. Once it was happening, the need inside her grew, expanding like the pale horizon behind the mountain range. The kiss turned out to be like a key in a lock, now that the door had been opened, she wanted in—she wanted to run around and explore the whole house.

  She watched him work diligently from behind, his broad shoulders moving under his shirt. It dawned on her then that he suffered from anxiety. It was hard work that calmed him down, that gave him a sense of meaning, of purpose, and of order in this chaotic world.

  Maybe they were alike in that sense, two kindred spirits, both turning in circles in the civilized world; but finding their peace hidden in tall trees and mountain gorges, in raging brooks, rolling fields, and endless azure skies. In a crowd they felt lonely, and out here alone, they found solace.

  She nearly fainted when she saw him toss one of the small towels to the side. What had once been beige was now crimson in color. At least blood meant some tissue down there was alive, for although she felt pressure and a burning sting, she wouldn’t describe it as pain, at least not the agony she’d imagined from what he described. It was more like a dental procedure, where you could see, smell, and generally sense the gory torture, but were numb to the wound, at least until the shock wore off.

  “Stop watching,” Tristan said without turning around.

  “Is it unethical for doctors to sleep with their patients?” She was drunk, feeling punchy, and almost giddy with nerves and excitement.

  “More unethical for them to sleep on the job. Stop moving,” he told her. He was stern when concentrating, but still playful with his words. She saw him remove the fulgent, crude, flat spoon from the fire. He paused, almost like he doubted his own ability to inflict such ugly pain on her body. He dug into his back pocket and fished out a neatly folded handkerchief.

  “Bite down on this,” he ordered.

  It was clean. Meghan folded it a few more times and placed it between her teeth.

  The lack of feeling during the amputation had maybe been a fluke, because when he pressed the lucent metal to her open flesh, it detonated a pain so acute, so raw and violent that it knocked her unconscious.

  The first notion to cross her mind when she came-to out of darkness was: you hurt me. I trusted you and you hurt me.

  Her entire left foot throbbed like a giant open-chested heart. Her brain was there too, her whole self centered in that one little part of her body. Not the toe though, because the dirty toe had been banished. She lived in the flesh beneath the extraction site, ground zero, the scene of the crime—the area of mourning.

  Meghan wondered what he’d done with it. Thrown it into the fire? Tossed it into the pot of soup that was perpetually slow-cooking over the stove or maybe just thrown it outside?

  Her mouth was dry, her face felt hot, she stunk and needed a bath. There was residual anger floating around in both her body and her head. She’d cut off his fingers and see how he liked it. Somewhere underneath it all, there was gratitude too, but it hadn’t surfaced yet. For the moment all she could feel was anger and resentment.

  Tristan seemed to sense it too. Despite looking her straight in the eyes, he hadn’t spoken, just lumbered around putting things back in their place and occasionally poking the fire. Meghan drifted in and out of consciousness watching him work. Her anger seemed to disperse in conjunction with the fever.

  “Here, drink this.” Tristan handed her a steaming mug. The mug had a bird on it, perched on a branch with pine needles and red berries.

  “Is it poison?” she asked him. Somehow amputations made her smart.

  “Nettle tea with ginger and turmeric. Settle your stomach and boost your immune system.”

  “Witchdoctor.”

  “Human, but let’s hope the doctor part will fly.”

  She took a sip and longed to dive inside the cup. Cleanse her body, but mostly her mind of the convoluted mess that was her tangle of feelings. Would men no longer find her attractive with a deformed foot? If she lived through this would she only ever have sex in the dark with socks on? What if she limped permanently when it was all said and done?

  She wanted to jump on top of Tristan and smack him for what he’d done. Pull his hair and pinch him, kiss his mouth again, tear off his stupid clothes and let him hurt her, but gently, and only if he wanted to.

  “I’m going crazy.” It was all she could think to say when she finished her tea and set down her mug.

  “That makes two of us.”

  Twenty

  Tristan

  When she passed out, he had worked quickly to treat and wrap the missing digit. The seared skin. As soon as she was momentarily all set, he booked it to the kitchen sink and expelled the contents of his stomach. The image of her toe popping off, dropping to the floor—was perpetually on replay in his mind. He’d dry heaved, gripped the sink edge until his fingers and knuckles were white. It had to be done. It had to. No choice. His mind worked overtime to convince and calm his roiling gut.

  He’d taken a small sip of water. Waited to see if it stayed down. When he’d felt confident enough, he’d returned to the crime scene that was his living room. To Meghan. He let the lingering memory of her lips on his, settle his stomach. He didn’t know what had possessed her to press her lips to his, was it the alcohol or need? Regardless it had felt like, coming home. There was nothing in nature as natural as the feeling of her lips against his. It was a blip in time, not long enough but something he’d never forget either. It was strange how moments, mere seconds could stick with a soul for a lifetime. He knew many years down the road that kiss would replay in his mind. It was wild, hot, but somehow still comforting and safe. That kiss was free from expectation, it was both vibrant sunshine and raging storm. It was nothing like any other kiss he’d had before.

  His father told him once, “When you find the one, you just know.” Tristan had thought that was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard a grown man say. “People will tell you that’s hogwash, that love isn’t instant. That it takes time. And in a sense, it does, but you can know in an instant with whom you’re supposed to put in that time.” He was beginning to think his father had been a wise, wise man.

  Her eyes blazed as she stared him down.

  “You’re not crazy.” His voice was hoarse. He looked away from her, unsure if she hated him or lusted after him as he threw all the offending towels, tools and the toe into the large basin beside the couch while she had some more tea. “But I might be. I just chopped off a toe. A human toe.”

  He watched her squeeze her eyes shut. Inhale deeply in and out through her nose, a slight whistle resounded. He wished for pain meds, something stronger than aspirin or ibuprofen. Even in her excruciating pain she was beautiful. Maybe more so than before. This was all temporary, he reminded himself. He had a jaundiced view of the world. He wouldn’t be any good for her unless she’d give up her home, creature comforts and he couldn’t expect that or wish for it. How he chose to
live wasn’t easy. What would she do? Garden? Help chop wood, watch the birds and sip coffee with him? He almost laughed at the thought. His mind drifted to other activities; skinny dipping in the spring a short hike away, love making on cold winter nights, it could work. Compromise wasn’t something he was particularly good at but for the goddess laid up on his couch, he’d consider it. Maybe split residency between homes during the year. Meghan whined, snapping Tristan from his collision of thoughts.

  “Here,” he said reaching for the bottle of ibuprofen. He shook four pills into his palm. “Take these. It will be hard to stay ahead of the pain, but I’ll do my best to keep you comfortable.”

  He pushed her hair from her forehead, slick with sweat, as she popped the pills into her mouth.

  “I feel gross,” she groaned.

  He blotted the back of her neck with the last clean washcloth. “I can clean you up a bit if you like.”

  “Can my foot get wet? Can I shower?” she asked.

  Tristan chuckled lowly. “No shower, no, but I can heat some water for a sponge bath. It will make you feel better. Unless that’s an unethical medical practice.”

  The smallest smile curved the corners of her lips. She’d be okay as long as he could keep that humor, that little spark shining, he knew he could pull her through this. Meghan was a fighter. “There’s my girl.”

  He hadn’t really meant to say it out loud. But he did mean it, right now she felt like his girl. Their eyes locked on one another intensely.

  Her eyes sparkled as they bore a hole directly through his soul. “Your girl? Is that who I am?”

  He dragged a hand down his face. “Sorry, it just slipped out. I didn’t—”

  “Shut up, Tristan. I liked it.”

  The way his name rolled off her tongue made him weak-kneed. He felt like a high schooler on prom night. She liked it. A confused wave of pride rolled through him. Raging hormones flooded his body. His mouth went dry and his cock hardened in anticipation. At ease. He mentally chided his lower half. He cleared his throat. It was confusing to be lusting after her hours after amputating her appendages.

  “Let me clean this up.” He motioned to the basin of gore.

  “Okay.” Meghan’s voice was breathy. “And Doctor,” she called as he stood clutching the tub.

  He grinned at her. “Yes?”

  “I’d like that sponge bath.”

  Tristan bit the inside of his cheek so hard the metallic taste of blood hit his tongue as he nodded at her. He needed to get his priorities in check. He was supposed to be saving her life, not falling ridiculously hard and fast for her.

  Twenty-One

  Meghan

  Throughout her whole life, Meghan had showered every day. Even days when she had the flu, she managed to drag her body out of bed and stand under the rushing water for a minute or two. Maybe the boys’ birthday had been the single exception. She’d never had surgery before, this was the first year she’d ever been camping.

  She wondered how often Tristan bathed and whether or not he missed the creature comforts of the populated world. She knew she smelled bad, fever sweat spiked with fear and at least seventy-two hours of stewing. She was ripe, embarrassed, and suddenly conscious of her nudity. With her toe bandaged up to the size of a football and elevated, she couldn’t afford modesty. Perhaps she could just act polite to make up for her situational indecency.

  He poured water from the cast iron tea kettle that was perpetually on the back right of the stove.

  “What are you cooking now?” she asked him.

  “Kidney beans. They take three hours and in the process warm up the house.”

  She watched as Tristan retrieved Dr Bronner’s peppermint castile soap from the kitchen. “Hippie soap” is what her boys called it, she used it after gardening and sometimes rubbed it on bug bites.

  “Do you ever run into bears?” she asked him. Tristan spread the hot washcloth over his hand and poured soap into his palm. He then folded it in two and scrubbed back and forth with his knuckles creating a lather.

  “Bears, wolves, the occasional angry moose.”

  “Wolves! I bet those are terrifying.” He dipped the soapy washcloth again and squeezed it out until it seemed he’d wrung every drop. He started at the back of her neck, the warmth and pressure made her close her eyes.

  “Everyone out here is hungry and we all do what we can to survive.”

  That’s what scared her about the wilderness. The innate savagery, the cutthroat do or die. Had Tristan been starving, he would have stepped over her sleeping body and moved on, a hungry animal would have made a quick meal out of her easy meat. Survival frightened her, primitive life was scary. She couldn’t imagine making the jump from squeezing cantaloupes among mountains of produce in the mega grocery store to digging in the soil with her bare hands to unearth an onion she’d planted herself six months before.

  Tristan lifted her arms and gently washed her armpits. She giggled because it tickled.

  “Will you live out here forever or will you someday go back? Don’t you want a family?” For all she knew, he’d already had one and was running away from that life.

  Tristan went quiet, like he didn’t want to answer that question.

  He washed her breasts and Meghan felt her nipples rise in response to his touch. She looked up at him then and thought she detected a hint of a blush. Maybe it had been a while since he’d been with a woman. He didn’t say anything, so she moved onto the next subject. Meanwhile, Tristan dipped the washcloth again so when it returned to her stomach, it was piping hot. She squirmed at the gentle swipes he made across her midsection.

  “What do you miss the most about your old life?”

  He washed the tops of her thighs, the fronts and backs of her knees. Her skin came alive with the cool ting of peppermint and increased circulation from the vigor.

  “You don’t stop, do you?’

  “What? Talking? Only when I’m nervous.”

  He wasn’t used to being beholden to questions. One-sided conversations in his head had become his primary way of communicating.

  “I miss trick-or-treaters, Christmas carolers, coffee shops with sunshine and plants. I miss the library too, those kinds of places where you can be around other people but still mind your own business. Solitude, but not solitary.”

  “What do you miss the least?” He washed behind her ears and down the middle of her spine.

  “Traffic, asphalt, garbage, arguments, crowded places, lines, banks, fast food joints, billboards, social media, news, advertising—so much advertising. Mowing the lawn, fake friends, wasting things, television, bills, politics. Jesus, almost all of it. My blood pressure rises just saying those things.”

  There was something sexy about the way he moved the washcloth from her back over to her hip. Meghan felt more aroused than she’d ever remembered feeling. Not just sexually, but awakened, from the tingling of her skin to her crystal-clear understanding of his reality.

  “Nether regions, Miss…?”

  “Taylor. I think I can do them. Hands feel okay. No peppermint soap for me, please.”

  He rinsed the washcloth and handed it to her.

  “I’ll make myself scarce, go check on the beans.”

  She wanted to be forward and tell him to stay. Tell him to wash between her legs, he’d already seen everything anyway. Hell, he’d chopped off her goddamned toe, wiped after she peed, and probably saved her life, all in less than a week.

  What a glorious treat it was to feel clean. She was clear-headed too. The fever state was gone and her body felt almost normal except for the grueling continuous throb of her stump.

  “Do you ever feel frightened out here? Alone when it’s dark? Hear scary noises and, I don’t know, Tell-Tale Heart? Someone knocking on the door in the middle of the night?” she yelled in the direction he’d disappeared.

  “Right now, a knock in the middle of the night would be a good thing. Means a park ranger made it over the pass and came out here to rescu
e us.” He was drying a dish with a tea towel.

  “Or an ax murderer running naked in the woods.”

  “That’s why I stick to the lighter movies. You just proved my point.”

  “I wasn’t delirious when I kissed you,” she said suddenly. She balled up the washrag and tossed it into the pan, it just cleared the edge and sloshed the water almost over the edge.

  “How old are you?” he asked her.

  She liked that he was direct, most men would be too polite to ask.

  “I turned forty this year,” she said. He nodded and turned back to the kitchen.

  “You’re avoiding my kissing comment!”

  “Because you admitted you’re an ax murderer.”

  She grinned and folded her arms behind her head.

  Later that night, he read to her after resting her foot up on his shoulder to drain the swelling. She felt like a happy cat after her bath, content, aloof, and focused mainly on her own comfort.

  She’d gotten used to having him around in these few short days and felt daunted at the prospect of going back to an empty house—she was surprised at how nice it was to have someone to talk to again.

  She woke to the sound of something frying in a pan, Tristan’s familiar form over the stove, and bright sun shining in through the window.

  Her toe was a whole new world of hurt today, an achy, whining, meaner pain than the shocking lopped off pain of yesterday.

  She yawned and Tristan turned. He walked over to her wearing jeans and a different flannel, a mug of steaming coffee in his hands.

  “I’ll give you this, but first we have to do this,” he said showing her both the thermometer and the java. She opened up her mouth obediently and he set the coffee on the table after sticking the thermometer under her tongue.