by Fox, Logan
It flickers as if to beckon me near, but as eager as I was to reach this safe harbor, now I’m reluctant to go near.
I know the forest.
I know its moods, its intricacies.
I’ve never seen this cabin before, and that bothers me on so many levels. A construction like this—crude as it is—would have taken several days to complete. How could I not have known it was being built?
More importantly, who built it?
I should be able to warm myself. If I take off these wet clothes, find enough leaves to cover myself with, my body heat…
Orange light blooms from the cabin.
A hallucination?
I’ve had so many tonight, I can’t tell what’s real anymore.
Pale smoke coils from a stub of a chimney, and a warm glow suffuses the inside of the cabin. I see a figure inside, but the angle is wrong for me to make out much more than that.
Fire.
Shelter.
Someone to assist me.
I stumble forward, gripping myself with shaking arms.
I sense another presence, and it’s not the person inside the cabin.
No. I know this soul as well as I know the forest.
I’m tempted to start running, but I know that would be the worst thing to do. Some animals wouldn’t care if their prey began running. Others wouldn’t be able to prevent themselves giving chase.
In my condition, the wolf will win. I don’t have the strength or mental fortitude to fight it off.
He’ll have torn into something vital before I make it to that window of light.
Shelter I may have, but I would die a slow death inside those warm walls.
So I force myself to keep walking.
I don’t look back. Even when I know it’s following, I keep my eyes straight ahead and hope like hell I’ll make it.
I keep my composure for all but the last few yards. Then I bolt forward, self preservation overriding every ounce of my remaining logic.
I skid the last foot, and bang a fist against the door. Again. Again. Harder, until it drowns out the sound of the wolf racing up behind me.
The door opens, and I’m faced with the gaping maw of a double-barrel shotgun.
“Move!” a thick, guttural voice growls.
But I’m frozen in terror.
A burly arm swipes me out of the way, sending me sprawling.
Boom.
Boom.
Chaching.
Boom.
The shots echo in the forest like a bad dream. I whip my head from the protective huddle I’ve collapsed into.
What’s left of the wolf lies in a bloody heap a yard from the doorway. A filament of smoke coils up from one of the shotgun’s muzzles before the man lets his arm sink to his side.
He turns to me, grubby face slack. “Cold?” he asks.
I’m still too shocked to move. I’m not even sure if I’m out of danger yet—this potato sack of a man could knock my head clean off my shoulders. A ham-sized hand grabs me by the scruff of my neck and hauls me inside.
“Sit.”
He releases me, and I barely manage to scramble into a nearby chair.
My teeth chatter but not as hard as they were outside.
Thank God. I might actually live to—
The man tosses a log on the small coal stove, making me jerk in surprise. He comes over to me—in this tiny house, it only takes three of his big steps—and presses his knuckles to my cheek. I recoil, but not before he’s touched me.
“Cold.”
I just nod dumbly. He reaches again, grabbing the neckline of my jumper between thumb and finger. “Wet.”
Oh, monosyllabic brute, what are you going to do to me?
The thought has hysterical overtones. Just like that, I break into gales of laughter.
The man watches as impassively as he’d stared at the wolf’s corpse outside. I eventually tire of my mirth, and hug myself hard in an effort to claw back some shred of control.
At least my teeth aren’t chattering anymore.
The room darkens a little. Is his candle going out? I slide off the chair, and land in a heap by the brute’s feet.
What the hell’s wrong with me?
I fell looking toward that solitary candle. The beacon I’d followed so faithfully to this refuge in the middle of the forest.
“Dry.”
I don’t understand him. I don’t understand this cabin, or the candle, or the way the forest echoed back the shotgun’s crack.
The floor is consuming me. I couldn’t have stood up if I tried and as it is, I’m terrified that I’m going to fall through into the depths of hell.
The brute grabs me by the back of my neck again and hauls me up. Thick, scarred fingers dig between my pants and the hem of my sodden jumper.
I watch him like he watches me—impassive, docile, dumb.
He eases my shirt and jumper over my head in a surprisingly gentle gesture. I sway a little before I can steady myself.
My nerve endings aren’t working anymore. I should have felt something. Warmth, cold, air moving over my skin.
Nothing.
I fear I’ve disassociated from this moment; My brain’s clever way of getting the hell out of dodge before this got more serious.
The brute turns away from me and grabs a filthy blanket from a heap in the corner I can only assume must be where he sleeps like a dog at night. He swings it over my shoulders and wraps it tight. Then he crouches in front of me and yanks off my shoes—one after the other.
Socks.
Pants.
Underwear.
They all come off.
The brute brings another blanket. He scoops me up and takes me to the crackling fire. Swaddling me like a babe, he encircles me, my face stinging as the first wave of heat touches my cheeks.
I’m crying.
I don’t know how long ago it began, but I can’t seem to stop.
My tears evaporate from the fire’s heat before they reach my jaw. Before they can drip on the brute’s hands. Yet, somehow, he seems to know.
He holds me tighter, and rocks me.
Then he starts to hum some wordless melody.
My body aches and begins to tremble. But there’s another pain too. Something ephemeral. Something I can’t define or locate.
It’s everywhere, and it’s been there all along.
How could it have hidden from me all these years?
Or had I simply mastered the art of forgetting?
I’d left home because I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing my father. I’d left Holly and Mother behind because then I could return and pretend nothing had happened.
We could all pretend.
Mother and I, at least. Holly never had anything to fear from Father. Holly was His Little Girl.
But Mother and I could never live up to Holly. We always fell short, one way or the other.
When I was seven, I told the doctor I’d been riding a bike. He didn’t say anything. He simply put my arm in a cast and prescribed me painkillers.
When I was nine, my tutor listened reluctantly to the tale of how I fell out the tree. She sympathized at the time—said that’s how she broke her leg when she was a kid too.
I’ve always been an excellent liar. It’s a skill I taught myself in order to survive.
At age thirteen, I’d had enough. No one at my private school bought my bullshit story about a ski accident. So I went home and confronted Father.
It was exhilarating. Freeing.
The biggest mistake of my life.
The next morning, Mother didn’t come downstairs for breakfast. When Holly asked, Father said she wasn’t feeling well.
The doctor made a house call later that day and left looking grim. When we finally saw mother again, two days later, her hand was still in a cast, and the bruises on her face were only barely starting to heal.
That night, Father sent for me. He never told me that what he’d done to Mother was my punishment. He didn’t
have to.
Since that day, I bore every slap, kick, and punch like a man. When I couldn’t stand the thought of him laying his hands on me, I’d make sure I wasn’t in sight when he arrived home.
Those times, I worried he’d turn to Mother or Holly to fulfill his sadistic needs. But he never did. And, the older he got, the longer his trips in the city would last.
It’s been almost a month since I’ve seen him.
Almost a month since I’ve last used.
I was clean.
But when I heard, I went to go find the stash the other part of me had hidden away for emergencies.
I couldn’t find it.
I took that journey sooner than I’d anticipated, and yet it was too late. My eyes should have been opened years ago, not now. Father is old and decrepit now. No one would believe I’d survived under his cruel intentions for so long without saying anything.
I couldn’t even believe it.
I cried a decade’s worth of tears. I howled out Father’s name and accused him of every crime he’d ever committed against me. I spat out his sentence, became judge and juror.
Of course, when I return home, he’ll be there. Waiting.
Except if I never return home again. Then there might be hope for me.
The brute rocked me till I was spent, until my tears ran dry and the aching pain inside me subsided. And then he hummed me to sleep.
The first full night’s sleep I’d had in years.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Clover
Hunter undresses me while I try summoning enough energy to fight him off. He’s the Dark, then he’s himself, then he’s a monster from the pits of hell. Morphing between states too quickly for me to focus on which one he really is.
Maybe he always was a demon. Always the dark.
The Dark.
The Dark.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it follows me inside. Hands on my skin.
Unlock the door, Love.
But I don’t want to.
Go to bed, Love.
But I’m not sleepy yet.
Don’t make a sound, Love.
Why would I when I don’t ever want anyone to hear?
He’s holding me now. No, there’s a blanket around me. It’s soft and smells of fabric softener. Wool? Chenille? I force my eyes open and grab a handful of the sensually soft weaves.
I breathe in the scent of it, and huddle into the tightest little ball I can.
My body pulses, but more than that I can’t feel. There is no sensation of heat or cold—just this slow pulse.
Slow, and becoming slower.
“You’re too cold.”
My eyes snap open—when had I closed them again?—and Hunter’s face is inches from mine. Brown eyes crinkle with concern, and I realize he has his fingers against my neck, that he’s burrowed his way in between the blanket I’m huddling under.
Trust me, Clover.
The Dark never commanded trust. It took what it wanted and expected me to obey.
Hunter slips away, dissolving into the light, and I jerk in shock at being alone. Then I see movement and turn my head with difficulty to watch him building a fire.
Just like he built one for me the other night. The same precise structure, near perfectly sized logs.
Sparks.
A billow of smoke.
He blows, and a gale of wind rattles against the cabin.
Hunter is twenty-foot tall; a giant crouching at the foot of a volcano. He pours fiery breath into its core as every snake in the forest congregates at his feet. I squirm, try to move, but I can’t.
I’m trapped inside my own body.
Trapped as that pulsing grows slower. Weaker.
The fire takes, but I don’t feel its warmth. Light blooms, but my vision is dimming.
I guess the Dark won’t have to wait any longer.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Hunter
Clover isn’t going to make it. She was too weak to take this journey, yet I forced her to. The thought is a resigned one which is why I can’t understand the flash of emotional pain that accompanies it.
This was a possibility, starting out. On some level I knew it.
But, back then, I’d only ever seen Clover on a video feed.
I’d never met her.
I’d never fucked her.
The brute made sure I was dry. He made sure I was warm, and he soothed me as I found the psychological release I’d been so desperate for and hadn’t even known I needed.
Most people don’t.
Mental illness is stigmatized at every turn. Families would rather you remained silent than bring them disrepute. You suffered abuse? At whose hands? That’s all in the past now.
Forgive and forget.
Blood is thicker than water.
The ones closest to us are usually ones that win the most of our trust. The closer they are, the easier it is for them to slip into our rooms at night, to raise a fist, to belittle and demean us.
I don’t doubt for a moment Clover was the subject of abuse. Whether physical, emotional, or verbal, the trauma is just as real. The scars, just as deep. Sticks and stones…but words can slice me straight through.
A broken bone, a broken hymen, a broken family, a broken marriage—the wounds heal, but the scars remain.
If you can accept your scars, then you will no longer feel the need to hide them in shame.
Warm.
Dry.
She’s begun her journey. I will ensure she finishes it.
“Trust me, Clover.” I make it a command, not a request, because her life depends on it. Whether she gives me consent or not, I won’t stand idly by and watch her succumb to the cold.
I don’t think she’s here right now.
Her eyes are fixed on the fire I started, but with an intensity that makes me think she’s purposefully avoiding looking at me.
I take off my sweater as a surge of anger flashes through me. Who could hurt someone like Clover? Crude and sarcastic she may be, but there’s not a bone of bad in her. Her bitterness comes from whoever thought they had the right to take what wasn’t theirs. Her happiness, her confidence, her mind, her body.
Thieves took what they wanted and fuck the consequences. Almost always, those thieves were deprived themselves—a vicious cycle that replays generation after generation.
But if you break the wheel sometimes, sometimes, the abuse ends at the last victim.
My shirt comes off next.
Clover makes a miserable sound in the back of her throat. She seems immobile—her arms twitch, but she can’t seem to move them more than a quarter inch at a time.
Her body is shutting down. Soon, she’ll experience nerve damage in her extremities. Cells will be destroyed as the body draws the last Fahrenheit of warmth to its core organs.
The brain isn’t the last to go, but it might as well be.
I want to make a soothing sound, but that could be her trigger. Hell, anything could be her trigger—a smell, a sound, the way someone walks.
In the time she attended my facility, I discovered only two triggers.
First, the most obvious, was the dark.
The night light. Her aversion to going outside at night. The way she kept all her clothes in neat piles on her dresser instead of in the closet.
Honestly, what kid isn’t afraid of the dark? I have memories of me as a teen—before I’d become an addict—leaping more than three feet onto my bed so I was sure the hands attached to the monster I knew—I fucking knew—lived under there couldn’t grab at my ankles.
Closets? They were an infinity deep, and a decade too long. They could harbor anything from a sadistic clown to a goddamn kraken.
Aliens scared me.
Monsters scared me.
The sight of an empty coat hanging on a coat rack scared me.
But I was a kid. Those things were considered normal when you hadn’t hit puberty yet.
What twenty-three-year-old is afraid of the dark? I mean
really, really, afraid of the dark. To the point where they’d go into hysterics if they woke up in pitch blackness?
Triggers.
They manifest the monsters under our beds into nightmares of solid flesh and bone.
So many people don’t understand PTSD. They think it’s reserved for the Jews, and the veterans. Those unlucky few locked in their own basements, forced to birth three children to a sadistic, pedophillic father.
No.
It’s not that simple. It’s not that easy.
No one wants to admit that the smell of lavender sends them into a panic attack.
No one wants to believe that, without the right treatment, sleeping eight hours is a luxury afforded by everyone but themselves.
I kept a diary that I hid so very well. In it, I chronicled my triggers.
Cedar. One of the many complex notes in my father’s aftershave, and the only item of furniture we possess that was constructed out of that wood was an armchair he kept in the attic. The one I would have to hold on to as he lashed me with his belt.
Another? Vermouth.
The last? The smell of pennies. In particular, the lucky penny he always kept in his pocket. The one he rubbed when he was anxious, excited, happy, sad, melancholy.
Fine—the smell of his fingers.
Because he’d wrap them around my throat and throttle me, and that’s all I would smell for close to a minute before I passed out.
And, when I woke up, I’d often keep smelling it, because my nose was bleeding.
‘A little leak,’ Mother used to call it.
I will never call her down for it. I would rather have suffered Father being home every damn day than waking up to my mother’s empty seat at the breakfast table again.
We never spoke of that day, Mother and I.
We didn’t have to.
I’d already sworn never to let it happen again, and I kept my promise. I made good on it.
Father passed away a year ago. For the five years preceding that day, he’d been bed bound, confined to a mental institution here in Mallhaven.
He proclaimed that Satan himself had possessed him.
I agreed, which is why I never bothered to correct the doctors when they prescribed him vast amounts of antipsychotics. After all, who in their right mind would want to be declared insane?
