Ethereal Shade

Chapter II – Forest

Kathryn

“You are dead anyway, little rabbit! They’ll hunt you down and butcher you!” The man screams behind me.

My legs were weak from disuse after spending two weeks in a cage, but I propelled myself forward by sheer desperation. Behind me, the man was cursing and fumbling, likely looking for his gun. I didn't dare look back. Leaving my fate in the hands of providence.

The forest floor was a minefield of dead leaves hiding twigs, stones, and fallen branches. Each step was agony. I finally made it to the trees and immediately hid behind a large trunk. I heard the sound of twigs snapping behind me and took a peek at the man; I saw him hobbling toward me. He was not going fast but I wasn’t either - my naked feet, the wound at my side, and the general weakness of my aching, freezing body were slowing me down. I glimpsed a gun in his hand and, without thinking, I took off again as he started to fire some rounds in my direction. I wasn’t out of the woods yet! No pun intended.

So I kept pushing myself, my feet continued to beat the forest ground, my muscles screamed in pain, my lungs not getting enough oxygen. Holding my side with one bloody hand, the knife with the other, I was trying to focus on the path I was on. It was a tough job: avoiding low branches, sparing my feet from sharp objects, keeping control over my breathing, and trying not to fall and break my neck. Luckily, I always made sure to keep myself in a very good shape or the heavy guy would have caught up with me by now. I sensed warm liquid creeping down my left leg from the blood leaking out of the gash in my side, and I knew I could not keep going at this pace for much longer.

I could not have imagined a worse situation, even in my wildest nightmares: being chased by a beefy kind of man, in the middle of nowhere, half-dressed and freezing, bleeding and barefoot. Though my mother always warned me about such an outcome, I never believed her. Nevertheless, I should have paid more attention. I should have trained more. I should have run faster. But all the “should-haves” couldn’t save me now.

At 23, if I had to resume my life in one word, it would be “running away”. Ok, that’s two words but who cares, you got my meaning. As far as I can remember, my mother and I never stayed in one place for more than a couple of months. And even though our way of life was uncommon, somewhere in my mind, I always thought there was a chance my mother was paranoid, borderline psychotic, and if not that, at least a lunatic. Because we were supposedly running away from a monster. A monster, I thought, was a figment of her imagination. A monster, leader of some kind of “group”, seemingly very intent on catching and enslaving me for what I was. But what was I? I had no clue and never found out. Because she died when I was barely legal, killed by those monsters she always talked about, and who were very real indeed. So, guess what? I didn’t stay and ask questions, I just resumed running.

And now, I was torn apart by my regret for doubting her. This vast chasm of misunderstanding stood between us like an insurmountable barrier, a bridge we couldn’t cross. I missed her presence, her protection, her gentle nudges to steer me right. She would have known what to do. Had I listened more closely, asked the right questions, and believed her, perhaps I wouldn’t find myself in this predicament now.

As I pushed forward, I noticed a placard with a “private property” sign on it and hope flourished in my stomach. Maybe I could find help. As I passed it, goosebumps rose all over my body but I didn’t pay much attention to it. With renewed energy, I kept moving. The fact I hadn’t been shot in the back yet was a good sign I might make it out alive after all. I even started to hope he wouldn’t be able to chase after me for much longer, with his wounded leg and all. I slowed down and turned around again, walking backward. What I saw made me stop. In the distance, I caught sight of him simply standing near the placard, holding his leg still with the gun in his hand. He was not trying to aim at me, as I was still partially hiding behind trees. He still saw me and laughed. Yes, he laughed and waved his bloody hand:

“Good luck now!”. He shouted. Then, he turned on his heels and slowly limped away.

Dumbstruck by this turn of events and still keeping my attacker’s retreating back in sight, I crouched down on the spot. I was a total mess, out of breath, and my side and feet were killing me. So I sat there breathing hard and still looking at the last place I saw the man. Why did he turn around? Did I tire him up? I dared to tear my gaze away from my attacker’s whereabouts and look around me. All I saw was a sea of high trees. Autumn had stolen almost all their leaves, leaving only naked branches stretching toward the pale winter sky. The chilling wind was trying to convince the remaining leaves to peacefully let go and give place to the coming snow, their fallen friends already blanketing the floor like a crispy rug.

The scenery gave me a sense of calm. The cold air floating around the trees, making this odd but enchanting melody through their branches, was helping me regulate my respiration. Apart from that and my still erratic breathing, everything was peacefully silent, only disturbed by the sound of an owl, now and then. The weather was quite nice but freezing cold, the pale sun hiding above the high trees. I had a sense that a storm was coming. I didn’t feel cold, though; adrenaline was still pumping in my veins. However, the frigid bite was gradually becoming uncomfortable. I looked at myself and reminded myself that I was only wearing my pink chemise, which only reached below my knees. I forced myself to stand and scanned the area once more. Even though all was calm and eerily silent, I concentrated and searched for threatening vibes in the air. I relaxed a little at the sound of the owl chanting again, it was a good sign. I ordered my legs to move again and my whole body made me pay for it by screaming agonizing pain into my head; a head that felt lighter by the minute.

I kept moving some more, just walking, each step a torture now. I had the sensation of not being able to fill my lungs with enough air. Getting up had restarted a fresh flow of blood out of my wound and I could feel my hand getting soaked with warm sticky liquid, the scent of iron stronger in the air. For a moment, I hesitated. Was I running out of time and strength? Should I give in and do what those men tried to force me to do from the start? Should I risk it, use my senses and completely heal myself instantly? No, I was too weak. It would drain the last bit of energy I had left. I had to patch myself up the traditional way. Because once the adrenaline wore off, I would crash and black out. And in the harshness of the wilderness and cold, I may never wake up again.

As I pushed a little more, before my mind could convince me to stop there, my efforts were rewarded when I caught sight of a small cabin. Or rather, what was left of it! Only a wooden door, a roof, and four walls with gaps where windows used to be were still standing. Nature had taken over, adorning the structure with a tapestry of green. Wildflowers climbed up the walls, and pine needles were strewn across the ground around it.

The scene before me appeared as if it were plucked straight from a glossy magazine spread, a breathtaking tableau of serene beauty and singular charm. The landscape was an exquisite blend of colors and textures, with the soft light casting gentle shadows across the land, and the gentle rustle of leaves whispering secrets in the breeze. In this moment, I longed for my sketchbook; under different circumstances, I would have filled pages of it, trying to capture the ethereal allure and shades of the exquisite scenery that lay before me. My mind drifted into this reverie, but a sharp twinge of pain pulled me abruptly back to my current predicament. I was in dire need of shelter, and the rustic cabin ahead seemed like an ideal refuge, its wooden structure promising safety amidst the wilderness.

Even though the cabin felt close, reaching its door one bleeding foot in front of the other felt like forever. I finally closed the distance; the door wasn’t locked. I pushed it open and realized I was still holding the knife; the same knife that grazed my side. Good thing I kept it too. After ensuring it was empty, I stepped inside the cabin. Closing the door behind me, I surveyed the interior. It was just a single room, barren of any furniture, with only leaves and dirt covering the floor, and the wind freely blowing through the open windows. I made my way to the farthest corner of the room, turned to face the door and windowless openings, and sank down against the wall. It was less of a graceful sit and more of a collapse, really.

I let out a shaky sigh, feeling a fragile sense of safety for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The urge to lie down in a ball onto the ground and surrender to exhaustion was overwhelming, but I knew I couldn't afford that luxury yet. The blood oozing from my side demanded immediate attention, and, as I suspected earlier, I was too exhausted to heal myself with my senses. I took stock of my ravaged state. I was a sight of chaos. My pink chemisette was no longer recognizable; its color had faded under a layer of grime. Blood smeared across the front, likely from my attacker's shattered nose, adding to the grotesque tapestry. My body was a battlefield, marked by a swelling on my head where my uncle's blow had rendered me unconscious. My hand, slick with the blood from my attacker's thigh wound, trembled. With grim determination, I lifted the chemisette over my hips to confront the gaping wound at my side, still oozing life. My legs were caked with dirt, and my feet had left a macabre trail of bloody prints all over the cabin's floor.

After this swift assessment of my condition, I moved into a crouched position and seized the hem of my chemisette and carefully used the knife to slice strips of fabric from it. These makeshift bandages would suffice for now. Despite the urgency, I ensured that I remained decently covered. My fingers gingerly brushed against my temple, relieved to find that the skin was intact, unmarred by any bleeding. That was a small comfort. A small relief. My breaths came in labored gasps, and my vision swayed in and out of focus. The rush of adrenaline was ebbing away, leaving my limbs heavy and my body on the brink of collapse. I quickly got to work, hoping to get some rest so I could heal myself and be on my way. This ordeal, with its vivid intensity, would soon fade into the recesses of my mind, a distant and indistinct memory, a mere shadow of a nightmare.

I was still crouched on the dusty floor, fingers working meticulously to secure the last knot, when a sudden, swift sound caught my attention. It was subtle, almost indistinguishable, resembling the gentle rustle of wind threading through leaves. "Or rather clothes rustling, you mean?" a voice in my head interjected as a chill raced down my spine and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled upright. This couldn't be good. My instincts, honed over years of close calls, never lied to me. Please, just give me a break! I thought desperately as I reached for the knife lying beside me. With its familiar weight in my hand, I struggled to my feet, pressing against the cold, rough surface of the wall for support. My heart pounded in anticipation as I steeled myself for whatever lay ahead. This day wasn’t over yet, was it?