With the horrors of my past resurfacing too fast for me to shut down, I ask, “Why are you doing this? What are your plans with me?” When he continues to ignore me, I shout, “Answer me! What do you want from me?”
A lot of people mistake the rock on my finger as meaning I’m worth a lot of money. I can assure you I am not close to wealthy. Yes, I make a decent income being the chief medical officer of a world-renowned hospital, but have you seen how much an average house in Ravenshoe costs? I live in an apartment because I couldn’t afford an attached duplex, much less a house. And even though the broker touted that it had ocean views, you must break your neck to take them in.
If the stranger’s plan is to ransom my safety, he’s shit out of luck. My parents could probably rustle up a couple of thousand, but since their retirement in Hawaii is self-funded, he may need to take that in cashless bonds.
My worries that this is a hostage situation double when the stranger locks his murky eyes with my engagement ring.
“It’s probably fake. Cedric is cheap when he’s paying.”
Ignoring me, he glares at the hideous rock like he despises it before he secures a duffle bag to his front, twists away from me, squats down so low the muzzle of his gun scratches the floorboards, then makes a gesture with his hand like he wants me to copy him.
His frustrated grunt reverberates through my frozen form when I don’t immediately jump to his command. He doesn’t appear to appreciate ignorance, even with him showcasing it in all its glory.
When his next grunt is burly enough to shift my focus from the gun he’s doing a poor job of concealing to his face, I pinch a pleat into my sweatpants before squatting like I need to use the bathroom.
I do, but that’s something we’ll keep between us.
When the stranger takes in my crouched stance, his scoff sends my pulse skyrocketing. It’s as gruff as his grunts but with an edge of danger highlighting it. “Ughis!”
“I don’t understand what you want me to do,” I blurt out, confident he can understand me even with him only speaking one mumbled word to me.
Although I can’t one hundred percent testify that actually occurred. It could have been a figment of my imagination. Not many things are making sense right now, and my body’s odd responses are by far the worst.
Instead of repelling away from the stranger when he curls his hand around the back of my knee and yanks me forward, I topple onto his back with a girlie squeal. Then, when he abruptly stands, I clamp my legs around his thick waist. I could excuse my blasé response on not wanting to add another bruise to my backside, but I’m not known for taking the easy way out.
Honesty starts at home. If I can’t be truthful with myself, who can I be with?
While we’re on the matter of honesty, although I’m confused as to why the stranger wants me to ride on his back, I’m also curious—even more so when our entrance into the main part of the cabin sees him yanking a deer skin off the bed and attaching it to my back as if it’s a cape.
Its thick hide protects me from the frigid winds blasting the cabin from all sides when he walks us outside. The snowstorm weather forecasters warned about during my commute to Cataloochee is in full swing. It’s bitterly cold and wet, and although the solemn conditions give reason as to why the stranger won’t seek medical attention for me now, what was his excuse the night of my accident? It was snowing then, but nothing like it is now. He could have sought help back then if he wanted to. The fact he didn’t makes me even wearier.
“Where are we going?” I ask several painstaking minutes later, heartbroken by the silence surrounding us. Shouldn’t the rotation of rescue helicopter blades be sounding above our heads? Or at the very least, the buzz of snowmobiles.
If anyone is looking for me, they’re not close to my location, and the knowledge is so distressing, another thirty or so minutes pass before a second wind of hope forms within me. “Are you taking me to the hospital? Or the local sheriff’s office? Either will work. You don’t have to walk me in. You can leave me out front. I won’t tell anyone what happened.” My nose screws up. “Not that I think anything happened. I just…”
I stop talking at the exact moment my stomach launches into my throat. Another wooden structure is on the horizon, but unlike the cabin we left over an hour ago, it doesn’t give off a cozy, rustic vibe.
It looks like the set of a horror film. It’s low to the ground, covered with both shrubbery and snow, and there are dead animals hanging from a secondary structure on its left. A deer, three rabbits, and a bird I don’t recognize are dangling from the silver hooks everyTexas Chainsaw Massacreinspired film uses as props. They’re beheaded and their stomachs are cut open. If that isn’t already concerning, there’s a giant silver hook in the middle of the pack, empty and primed for its next victim.
What if that victim is me?
Too scared to think rationally, and almost certain my blasé response an hour ago is coming back to bite me on the ass, I beat into the stranger with everything I have before leveraging my getaway by digging my good foot into his ribs and pushing back with all my might.
Although my escape almost gets snagged by the sling holding his shotgun to his body, I land on my ass with a thud. Shock I’m not swallowed whole by the snow the stranger hiked us through doesn’t get the chance to register. I’m too busy crawling through the sloshy track he left behind to let something as measly as surprise slow me down.
I’ve barely scampered three feet away when the stranger catches up with me. He doesn’t yank me up by my hair like almost every gory mafia movie depicts. He bands his arm around my waist before plucking me from the ground as if I am weightless.
“No!” I scream, still hopeful someone will hear me even with us tracking deeper into the woods. I wouldn’t say I have an overly girlie voice, but when I want to be heard, I have no issues bringing out the pitch that has my voice ringing in the interns’ ears long after initiation.
All hope is lost when my cries for help echo back at me.
There’s no one close by.
Not a single sole.
I am alone and at the mercy of a madman.
“Please,” I beg, my one word more a sob than an actual word. “I don’t want to die. I’ve barely lived.” My plea comes out as honest because it is. I work. That’s all I do. That isn’t living. It isn’t even coping, but it won’t stop me from begging for mercy. “Please.”
