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I stop, spin in a slow circle, and try to get my bearings. I’ve hiked several trails in and around Stone Bay, but I’ve not seen a familiar marker for hours as the trail vanishes in the trees.
Lips numbing, my teeth chatter as a tremor ripples through my body.
So. Damn. Cold.
A twig snaps nearby and I turn to locate the source. In no time, the day has quickly transitioned to night and I can’t see more than a few feet away.
I open my mouth to ask who is there, but nothing comes out. Hand at my throat, I clutch my neck and try to speak again. But my attempt at saying hello is met with a scratchy, faint whisper.
Another twig snaps, followed by the rustling of leaves. Whatever—whoever—it is, they’re closer now.
I shuffle forward, the earth squishing between my toes as I try to escape. Extending my arms in front of me, I feel for trees or boulders. Somewhere to hide.
My hands land on a thick tree trunk. Fingers sweeping over the bark, I discover a dip in the trunk. A hollow cave within the tree.
Squatting down, I crawl into the small alcove, sit down, and draw my knees to my chest. Lips pressed to my legs, I count until my breathing calms, listening to the sounds outside the tree.
Owls hoot in the distance. Snow hits the forest floor faster, harder. Cicadas chirp from every direction, closer, louder. The one noise I listen for, the one sound I try desperately to focus on, I no longer hear.
I close my eyes and curl into a tighter ball. My body shakes uncontrollably; my toes and fingers numb, lifeless. I rub my hands up and down my shins, begging for warmth from the friction.Up and down. Up and down.As I try to stave off the cold, it dawns on me what I am wearing. A summer sundress, most of my body exposed to the elements.
Why am I wearing this dress in the winter?
Before I get the chance to backtrack my steps, a hand is in my hair, fingers in a tight fist. Yanked out of my refuge, the hidden figure drags me across the forest floor by my hair. I slap at their hand, opening my mouth to scream. Again, nothing comes out. No voice to cry for help. No hope of begging for my life.
Then they let go. Drop me on the ground.
My head hits a nearby rock and I dizzy. But my muddled brain clears when something icy grazes my bare skin.
“Help,” I force from my throat, but it is less than a whisper.
In the next breath, my skin is on fire. Raging, blazing, a brand sears my skin and slashes my soul.
The sound of fabric tearing bounces off the trees as my dress is ripped away. Fire scorches my skin again and again, on my thighs, my belly, my breasts. Slashes filled with hatred and disgust and anger.
Snow pummels my face, blinding me, drowning me, but I don’t attempt to brush it off. I can’t. My arms refuse to move, to act, to fight.
Warmth caresses my cheek, one puff followed by another. Knuckles stroke the line of my jaw, stopping when they reach my chin. Grip firm and punishing, they tip my head back, their lips dancing over mine.
“My whore.”
I shoot up in bed and slap a hand to my chest. Lungs burning, I gasp for oxygen. Sweat slicks my skin, my body shakes from head to toe. “Just a dream,” I mutter as I fist the comforter. “Only a dream.”
My eyes scan the room with desperation. I search for an anchor. One tangible thing to link me to reality. A touchstone to ground me when my mind wanders down uncertain paths.
Scooting off the bed, I pad across the room to my dresser. Pat the surface in the dark. Watch—no. Candle—no. Picture frame with a photo of four-year-old me on Dad’s shoulders at the beach—a vacation I don’t remember, but my favorite picture of us—no.
Tears well my eyes as I pause my scavenger hunt. God, I wish Dad was here. Alive. Whole. By my side. Able to wrap me in his arms and make the world disappear.
More than thirteen years have passed, yet I miss him as if it were yesterday.
Dad was everything good in life. He had this uncanny ability to turn bad days into the best days. A sliver of good was all he needed to make life better. With his brilliant smile and vibrant aura, he won the hearts of everyone in his orbit. Regardless, there were only two he pursued constantly—Mom’s heart and mine.
Matthew Sparks was too generous, too loving, too magnificent for this world. And taken far too soon from this life.
I reach for the small rose gold chain around my neck. Trace a finger along the metal until I meet the small crescent moon at the hollow of my throat. Close my eyes and send a silent prayer to him.
Love you, Daddy.
