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Chapter Twenty
Daphne
I’ve never run like this, ever. Not at school. Not at home. Not for exercise. Not for fear. Not for anything. Stillness is what I do to save myself, not motion. That’s for Leo. He’s the one who fights.
He’s not here.
There’s a strange rush of power in running to save myself. It’s not up to anyone else. I’m alone in the towering trees. For the moment, there’s no one else. But danger is coming. Danger waits behind me in a black van. Two dangerous men and one desperate one. All of them are a threat.
This forest is nothing like the woods behind Leo’s house. He has that one managed. It’s a natural area, but it’s protected. Almost as cared-for as the stand of trees by my parents’ house. These woods have been left alone, and they’re wild.
My feet stumble over thick roots concealed by the snow. My ankle twists. More pain in my knee. I’m sure it’s going to hurt even more when this is over.
Will this ever be over?
Branches reach out and scratch at my face. It feels like they’re cutting into bruises. Sensitive skin. Whenever I see one, instinct makes me jerk my head out of the way. I’m afraid for my eyes. If I get stabbed in the eye by a branch, I’ll scream. I might even fall.
And they’ll catch me.
They’ll catch me, and they’ll cut my clothes off, and they’ll rape me in the snow. That’s what men do when they’re provoked. I’ve definitely provoked them now.
My hair whips into my face, and I almost tumble into the snow trying to shake it away. The zip ties saw into my wrists. I hope it’s just raw skin and not blood. I wish my face didn’t hurt.
I want to be able to see.
God, it’s hard to breathe. My lungs feel huge, like they can take in more air than ever before. But the cold air burns. My throat is too narrow to breathe freely. It’s tight with tears and terror. The power didn’t last.
Because my body isn’t lasting. The base layers below my snow clothes are too much. They’re perfect for when I’m sitting on the shore, sketching. I’m sweating now. The heat circles my neck and spine. I keep tossing my head, trying to get out from under my hood. It’s already off. My hat is gone, too.
A root reaches up and grabs my toe.
This time, I can’t stop myself from falling. My head knocks against the trunk of the tree and I go forward, on top of my hands. There’s no way I’m not bleeding now. Hot pain circles my wrists. The only sound louder than my heartbeat is my gasping breath. I get my knees under me and force my mouth shut. It doesn’t work.
Have to keep going.
Now that my ears aren’t ringing, I can hear the ocean. It’s unmistakable. At night, the waves blend together in a whoosh that has its own heartbeat. That’s the water touching the shore.
If I can make it there, I’ll be safe.
I know, rationally, that the sea doesn’t always mean safety. I know a person can drown or freeze or try to escape and fail. I know it can pull me under just as easily as it can let me surf.
I know, and I run for it anyway.
When push came to shove, when that van door opened, I had to choose which direction to choose. It made sense to run to the ocean. I’ve been running there for a long time.
Maybe there’s a reason I painted the ocean all these years. Whether that was decided by God or the universe or random sparks in my brain, I want it to mean something. I want my hope to be justified.
I want to live.
Emerson loves the ocean, too. He tells himself that he doesn’t. He says it’s random chance that he knows how to surf, but he made his home on the shore and uses the open water to steady himself. He sleeps to the white noise of waves on sand. He sees a challenge in it, and victory. The sea is always changing, but for Emerson, it’s stability. It can never be diminished. It can never be made small. It can only be what it is.
The ocean is how I found him.
It was my obsession that bonded us. He loved what he saw in my work. My work is the ocean. It will always be wrapped up in the ocean, just like my heart will always be wrapped up in him.
Forever.
Even if forever doesn’t last very long.
