Paradise Forbidden

by Natalie E. Wrye

  I grip the bag tighter on my back, hustling my way up a hill faster than I intended on taking it.

  “And so what if I lied?”: my thoughts veer violently. What was I supposed to do? When would I have told the truth? He would’ve argued me down… or worse: hated me.

  He may hate me now.

  And despite giving him every reason to… I don’t want Trevor to hate me. Not now. Not after my epiphany from last night.

  I want him to make it to safety. I want him to return to normalcy.

  Sticking with me would have come with baggage. Secret locations? A personal vendetta-seeking journey? He should have never been a part of this plan to begin with.

  I treated the crash like a bump on the road: just a pit stop on the destination voyage. I’m not normal. And I never will be.

  A normal person searches for a rescue after a fatal accident. A normal person listens to her superiors when they give her specific assignments. A normal person wants what everyone else is striving for: the fame, the fortune: the power.

  Not me: I sing to myself, my inner voice slinging sarcasm left and right at my stubborn subconscious. No. Silly little Katarina with all of her ideals and virtues and opinions has to “buck the system”: show her rebellious streaks (all ten thousand of them).

  Sometimes, I wish that I were normal: that I could be content with climbing the corporate ladder; that I could sit quietly at my desk and stack up vacation time. Do the obligatory beach trip with shallow friends. Maybe marry the normal, grinning guy with the head full of blond hair and the sister that lives in Chicago and a former camp counselor background that…

  I trip over a jutting rock, planting my hands into the earth to keep myself from eating the dirt that lies there. Serves me right. I’m being ridiculous.

  Like I said… I’m not normal. And if I’m being truthful… neither is Trevor. It’s what I like most about him. He’s not like the suits that I surrounded myself with: the other grinning bobble-heads in ties that sought to get a leg up over one another, day in and day out.

  The money-grubbing “social mountaineers” that’d step over friend or foe just to get a smile from the CEO or a pat on the back from the equally brown-nosing hack. The kind that lured talented writers like myself into the fold, just so they could throw you to the wolves when upper management went looking for sacrificial lambs.

  He’s not afraid to get a little dirty: take a little risk; throw a little emotion around. And God… I mean… what happened to “emotion”? The people I knew and worked with in Tampa were like zombies: business-casually dressed Frankensteins that stomped stolidly from one place to the next.

  Work. Lunch. Happy-hour. Home.

  Work. Lunch Happy-hour. Home.

  Work. Lunch. Week in Hawaii (!)… Home.

  Day after day, after day, after day.

  They hated their jobs, despised their bosses, and had drinks with co-workers that they cared nothing about. No desire. No passion. No fire. No will.

  And these were the recent grads! Don’t even get me started on the mid-career flunkies. They acted their asses off, giving performances worthy of Academy applause, fooling everyone into believing that their jobs were professions they loved, while secretly grumbling to any unfortunate calling telemarketer who would condescend to listen.

  I just wanted to get a break from that: to get back to a point where I had a say in my own decisions. And now look where I’ve ended up. Alone… dirty… and lost.

  Great thinking, Kat.

  I stop abruptly, reaching for my wrapped-up ankle, making sure the cloth is still tight. It hasn’t been bothersome for a while, and I can’t tell if I’ve gotten used to the pain or if its lack of movement has really helped its healing.

  I haven’t exactly given credit where credit was due. Trevor has done an excellent job attending to it. He approached it with the same care that he appears to give in all that he does. He’s organized, thorough and ever watchful.

  But there’s more to it than that.

  The way he walks, moves and talks…

  There’s this meticulousness about him: an air of regality that belies his rugged nature. He’s like a displaced prince, plopped down into a different dimension: a royal with pauper-like tendencies, a smooth marble polish with rough, jagged edges. It’s mind-blowing to me.

  He’s a combination of two worlds, melded into one, that somehow came crashing into my own universe.

  A crunching sound from afar stops me in my tracks. I pause, leaning heavily on the makeshift staff that I’ve been using for my leg. The inherent hum of the woods is almost deafening: the scamper of squirrels, the chirps of birds. But my ears are straining: straining for the sounds of bigger fare: heavier footfalls.

  The kind that come from deer or bobcats… or black bears.

  They roam these parts of Tennessee, and they can be big, burly…and mean. I didn’t worry about them too much when I was with Trevor. I instinctively knew that I could rely on his protection. But now that I am alone… the fear is infinitely more real.

  The cool sweat that was on my brow isn’t cool anymore, and now rivets of the salty fluid run rapidly down my face, causing my sunglasses to slide down my ears. I push the shades further up over my forehead, planting them firmly into my hair.

  I incline my head, listening… harder… harder… harder… I am listening so intently that I think I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat. Nothing. I hear nothing. I let go of a shaky breath, starting to move again.

  But then another loud crunch sounds, turning me into stone, locking all of my limbs in place. I’d rather hear the skittering of small claws, maybe even the tittering of tiny squeaks… because this… this is something different.

  The sound is undeniable; I can hear the weight of it when it lands. It’s a footstep, all right, and the step is calm, slow… deliberate.

  I am not alone.

  ***

  Trevor

  Nightfall happened several hours ago, and several hours later… I am still looking. Daylight has dwindled down to nothingness, and I am chronologically closer to a new sun than I am to the one that just set behind me.

  And Kat… she is still missing.

  After she’d gone, I moved with a fervor that I didn’t know I possessed, cutting my way across land and water faster than my injured shoulder should allow. I barely take breathers, opting to walk and climb in the fear of losing precious time to dawdling. I can’t risk a small shower break, can’t afford much of a “bathroom” pause, either.

  Her life depends on it.

  The cloak of night falls heavily upon me, and the deeper the dark becomes, the quicker I move: the further I press onward. Scrapes now cover my body like decoration, and the moisture of sweat is now an ever-present sheet on my body. My voice is hoarse from the repeated yelling, and her name now comes out as a whisper between my chapped lips.

  I smell nothing. I hear nothing. I think nothing… but Kat.

  Kat. Kat. Kat.

  She is out here, somewhere, all alone. Defenseless; empty-handed; solitary. I have to find her.

  The niggling needle of exhaustion pricks my skin once more, and I push it away, willing my body to ignore the pull of sleep or rest. Every time I think of sleep, I imagine her long brown hair. Every time I think of sitting, I see those big blue eyes, staring back at me.

  I remember that look of pure fear in her face, the unadulterated dread that lay there when she fixed her icy eyes in my direction on the bus. A shared but unspoken knowledge passed between us in that moment.

  It was like we knew it. We almost knew the bus would crash.

  I never want to see that look in her eyes again. The thought alone… that it may be there right now… propels me like a missile.

  Another hour passes by, maybe two. My sense of direction hasn’t failed me often, and I’m hoping it won’t now. I think I’m close… but can’t say for sure.

  My legs are cramped. My calf muscles are in knots. The skin on my arms and legs is cool. In fact,
it’s freezing.

  Did the temperature drop? I can’t tell. My blood is running so hot beneath the surface.

  My shoulder is starting to burn again, and my bag is like an anchor, tethering me to the ground. I slide it from my shoulders, letting it slink its way into the earth. Can I leave it? No, I can’t… but the weight…

  No, no, no. I have to go on. I need to go on.

  I try to smack my fading flashlight: an attempt to jerk it into providing renewed radiance. The light is dimming: the bright beam turning into an orange glow. Fainting, flickering: showing signs of its final breath.

  Or maybe it’s just me…?

  My vision is going in and out; the lines in front of me blur into a haze. The formerly firm ground now feels like quicksand, and I struggle to put one leg in front of the other.

  Frantic, I grab for my bag, unzipping it, fumbling around in search of its contents. The handle… I can’t find the handle. Suddenly, I feel something cool and hard beneath my fingers. I grab it. The gun.

  My fingers are shaking as I grip it; the sweat in my palm almost lets it slip from my grasp. I’m afraid to use it. I’m afraid not to.

  But I have no choice.

  I raise my eyes to the sky, staring directly at the moon. I can see just enough of it through the trees to make out its crescent shape.

  My aim must be spot-on. I can’t miss. If I do, I’m dead. In fact, I may be dead the second I touch that trigger.

  I point the gun at the lighted orb, taking aim. My arm is weak. It trembles like a leaf in the wind. Steady… I tell myself. Steady…

  I pull the trigger.

  A spark shoots towards the heavens, blazing a fiery trail in its wake. It explodes against the night sky, creating a burst of red.

  It’s beautiful. It may be the last beautiful thing I ever see.

  My chest is constricting. My throat is closing. I can barely find the strength to inhale. I drag my bag behind me, giving it a final thrust into the wet grass in front of me.

  My knees buckle, and I feel of whoosh of wind pass my face as I crash towards its green surface.

  And then… I feel nothing at all…

  Trevor

  Hands. Fingers. Nails.

  They’re everywhere. Around me. Under me.

  They’re holding onto me. Some are digging into me.

  Voices. There are voices. Voices from above. They’re speaking so fast. I can’t… I can’t understand them.

  Nothing makes sense. Why… why can’t I understand?

  Something is wrong. My brain… it won’t decipher. I want to open my eyes… but they are so heavy. My mouth feels glued shut. My tongue won’t move an inch.

  Whose hands are these? Whose voices? Where am I?

  Kat…

  ***

  I feel the warmth of the fire before I see it: before its light even registers to my sluggish mind. It feels warm and welcomed: delicious. I remember being cold not too long ago: so cold. I could see my own breath.

  I was sweating, though: cold and sweating. How? It wasn’t from the temperature, no. It was the running, the exertion. I was so tired. My joints ached. My bones hurt, and my tongue was numb.

  I’m on the ground…

  Holy shit. I passed out.

  My eyes shoot open at the thought, and I start to rise from where I lie. My movements are quick and panicked, and I knock over something clunky in my haste. A gentle hand lands on my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin, hopping so far backwards that I land on my back from where I started to sit.

  I look upward and find kind brown eyes staring back at me. The eyes circle me, stopping somewhere near my feet. They have a hand attached, and the hand is reaching out towards me, inviting me in with an open palm.

  I act instinctively, grabbing the hand to pull myself into a seated position before withdrawing quickly: wary.

  I’m not outside anymore. I don’t know where I am.

  A warm and wooden room frames the brown eyes. Rich hues of gold and brown, yellow and red adorn the walls. Intricate pieces hang high above. Some colorful tribal masks are planted midway.

  Where the hell am I? Kat…

  “She’s fine,” a voice says, and I balk, gaping in the direction of the brown eyes. They belong to a woman. She looks to be about middle-aged, but I can’t tell for sure. Her eyes dance with joviality and youth that contradicts the lines near her mouth and brow.

  Her face is a reddish-brown shade, and her nose is strong and aquiline. She’s more handsome than pretty, but her manner reveals an inherent softness that adds warmth to her chiseled face.

  She’s careful not to touch me again, and I know that she understands how frightened I am at the moment. Could she hear my thoughts?

  Intuitively, she says, “You’ve been saying her name in your sleep. She’ll be back shortly. She went to fetch some more water for you. We’ve had to force you to drink in between your sleeping spells. You were extremely dehydrated.” She cocks an eyebrow, flashing me an amused smile.

  I sit up straighter, gingerly, trying to remember these things: anything… but my brain feels empty, and my subconscious finds no straws on which to grasp. All I know is that Kat’s safe; Kat’s here. But where is here?

  “You’re in my house. You’ve been asleep here all day,” the woman speaks, surprising me yet again.

  “My son, Viho, found you not too far from here, actually. He and his friends carried you back here. The recklessness of youth actually did some good, for once.” She smirks, shaking a head full of jet-black hair.

  “Maybe not in your case, though…” she pauses, prompting me to finish her sentence. I sit dumbfounded, until I realize what she wants.

  “Uh… Tre-Trevor,” I stammer briefly. “My name is Trevor.”

  “Well, Trevor,” she smiles slyly. “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Ama.”

  It’s such a simple name, yet she says it so beautifully that I am mesmerized. Ama. I like it instantly, but suddenly, the gears of our conversation shift.

  “Are you ready to wash?” she asks. “The water should be nice and hot right now. We don’t have running water, but the fire does a great job with heating...”

  My brain starts to zone out from the rest of what Ama says. All I hear are the words “wash” and I am thrown completely for a loop. My eyes widen, and I start to sit up.

  “Wash? Um, ma’am… Ms. Ama, I really appreciate this…”

  “No ‘miss,’” she says, holding up a hand. “Just Ama, please. I think it would be a really good idea. Kat won’t be back for some time. Fetching water isn’t the easiest thing to do around here, but she insisted. You might find it helpful to be… presentable before she returns.” Her nose twitches briefly.

  She’s being nice. What she really means is ‘Trevor, you stink and you look like hell and I think it’d be a good idea to not assault Kat’s nostrils like you have mine.”

  I nod reluctantly, suddenly becoming very aware of the matted hair on my head and the blood and sweat on my arms.

  “Come on,” Ama motions. “Let me show you where you can set up.”

  ***

  The area where Ama directs me is a little offset room with a window that would be a bathroom, if it had any amenities. At the moment, it is simply a little nook in the corner of, what I realize, is a log cabin, but it is certainly more than enough for me.

  The entire cabin has a homey feel, albeit rustic, and each room contains an elaborate pleated rug in which one may sink his or her feet. Already, I can see how it is a wonderful reflection of Ama and her openhearted personality.

  Before she leaves me to it, I help Ama carry buckets of fire-heated water into the crudely built bathroom, and we pour gallon after gallon of steaming liquid into what will soon be my bath.

  She crushes a few mint leaves into the hot water, adding them to provide a salve, she says, for my irritated and itching skin.

  The “bath” I take is really nothing more than a dip in a gray vat of scalding water. It’s an overs
ized bucket that barely fits my body, but I have to admit: it may be the best bath I’ve ever taken.

  Hot water is now a luxury of which I’ve been deprived for the past six days, and getting to wash my body with it, no matter how hot it is, is so refreshing and relaxing that I find myself nodding off in the cramped-up oval base of the vat.

  I let myself languorously sink inside of the water until I overstay my welcome and it eventually grows cool. I sneer at my tattered clothing on the floor before exiting the tub, grabbing instantly for the masculine clothing that Ama has left behind for me to wear.

  The clothes are just a bit too small, but they suffice, and I slip the grey t-shirt overhead (with some difficulty because of the tourniquet), and eventually hop my way into the khaki shorts that she’s provided.

  I reach up to touch my face, feeling the newly grown shag that’s accumulated there, and I wish desperately for a mirror that seems nowhere to be found.

  The sound of a door opening and closing startles me and I leap to action, immediately leaving the room, wet hair and all.

  I’m surprised when I walk back into the main room to find a tall man standing there, hair as black as ink, with a large and goofy grin on his face. His nose is sharp and long; his eyes are large and brown. He has the face of Ama. This must be Viho.

  When Ama mentioned Viho’s youthfulness, I expected a child… but what walks in is more man than boy: a broad-shouldered, smirking youth with strong arms and long legs. His face is an exact replica of his mother’s: kind and handsome.

  But where Ama is a shining beacon of tradition, Viho is a gateway to modernity. Ama’s feet are adorned with what looks like deer-skinned moccasins; Viho wears rubber-soled sneakers. Ama is fashioned in a three-quarter-length dress with diamond patterns; Viho sports a plaid t-shirt with torn jeans.

  “How you doing, brother?” he says when he sees me, walking right up to me with no pause. He clasps my healthy shoulder with one large hand then reaches out the other to shake my open hand.

  His speech is less staggered than his mother’s; whatever accent she has is less noticeable with him. I smile gratefully at his enthusiastic face, appreciating all of the vigor that comes with his teenaged-adolescence.