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I know I don’t have time to sit and wallow, so I get up again, and much slower this time, I hobble away from the border.
I’m almost home.
* * *
Fuck.
Of course, I break my ankle when I’m almost home. Which should have taken maybe three days has turned into a week. The pain in the beginning was so unbearable I had to find another abandoned building to hunker down in. The pain became so excruciating, my ankle swelled up like a fucking balloon. There was no way I could walk on it.
I should just ask someone for help. I’m in our territory now, I should be safe.
But I’m not. I’m fucking paranoid and untrusting of anyone around me. I won’t feel safe until I’m within the gates of my clubhouse and surrounded by my men.
It took days to find the abandoned building. Then I hunkered down for a few more days. I haven’t had any food since Mexico, and the tiny water bottle I found in a trash can before I made it to the border ran out the other day.
I’m seriously close to being so broke down physical that I won’t make it, but I fucking have to.
The closer I get to home, the cooler it gets. Now I wish I had the suit coat I left in the desert right in the beginning. The white shirt has worn down and feels threadbare. My bare feet freeze, and I wish I’d at least taken the socks.
I’m almost home.
Hefting myself up, I walk.
And walk.
And fucking walk some more.
Within a few days, I make it to the bottom of the mountains.
I’m home.
I’ve made it to civilization. Every time there is a car or person, I hobble off to hide.
I don’t trust anyone.
I limp up into the mountains, loving the seclusion of trees. The cloak of branches makes it easy to hide. I can breathe easier.
My ears perk up when I hear a stream. Forgetting all thoughts of cleanliness, I rush over to the source of the noise as quick as I can and fall face first into the small creek. I take large swallows, groaning as the cold water moistens my throat. I can feel myself absorbing the water quicker than I can drink it.
Once I’m full of water and drenched, I crawl out, gripping onto the roots of a nearby tree to pull myself out of the water. My ankle throbs. My stomach rolls. My mouth opens and the water I just guzzled down comes back up and onto the fresh covered snow.
“Ughh.” I groan, rolling onto my back.
A part of me wants to give up.
Call it quits.
All this fucking agony would go away if I just let myself die.
But as I close my eyes and wish death upon myself, a blonde haired, blue eyed girl shines in the shadows of my thoughts, with a small, curly, brown haired three-year-old holding her hand as she looks up at me with those pure eyes of hers.
I roll over and push myself to a stand, walk-crawling my way up the mountain.
I’m coming, Ivy.
* * *
I know where I am.
