Finding Darkness

Episode 4

"What!?" I yell out, jolting upright, the last word ripping from my throat. As soon as I sit up, my head starts spinning violently, the shed around me swaying like a ship in a storm.

Where am I? The thought is fleeting.

I look around, the rough wooden walls, my pack, the rain still drumming on the tin roof, and the memory returns. I came here to escape the downpour and get some desperate sleep.

"What the hell was up with that dream?" I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to fend off the pounding headache that’s taken root. My heart is still hammering, and a strange tingling sensation radiates from my forehead where he kissed me.

"Hello?" A woman’s gentle voice calls out from the other side of the shed door.

Damn.

That dream has me so disoriented, so weirded out, that I didn’t sense anyone approaching. My guard is slipping, and the realization ignites a slow burn of self-directed anger.

"I don’t mean to scare you," the voice continues, soft and apologetic. "We heard you call out and wanted to make sure everything is okay."

She said "we." There are two of them. My senses, sluggish from exhaustion, finally kick into gear. There’s only one way out of this rickety shed, and I don’t think they’re going to leave. I take a deep, shaky breath, the air still smelling faintly of damp earth and rust. I stand up slowly, deliberately, every movement a protest from my injured shoulder. I grab my pack, slinging it carefully over my good shoulder, and pull my knife from my boot, its familiar weight a cold comfort in my palm. I walk toward the door.

"Okay, I’m coming out," I call back, my voice steadier than I feel.

Before my hand even touches the latch, I hear a soft, metallic "click." A gun. Pointed directly at me. I slowly push the door open, blinking against the sudden assault of sunlight. My eyes, accustomed to the dim interior, take a painful minute to adjust. Finally, the world sharpens. I see the woman who spoke, her face etched with concern, standing beside a man. He holds a pistol, its muzzle unwavering, pointed directly at my chest.

The woman is older, perhaps in her early fifties, her face plain but kind, framed by dark hair threaded with streaks of grey, pulled back in a loose bun. She's barely five feet tall, yet there’s a surprising strength in her posture, a palpable presence that belies her homely appearance. I wonder if she could be this man’s mother. The man beside her is tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders and a lean, athletic build. Even through the fabric of his clothes, I can see the defined silhouette of his muscles. He’s undeniably handsome, with sharp features and a rugged, weathered look that’s, well, a bit sexy.

Stop staring. The internal reprimand is sharp.

Why am I even thinking this way about this man?

My gaze locks with his eyes, and I gasp, a faint tremor running through me. His eyes. They’re a brilliant, piercing blue. Not just blue, but that specific, vibrant shade. They remind me so much of him. They remind me of my daughter.

"What do you want," I demand, my voice colder than I intended, "and why are you pointing a gun at me?"

The woman is the one to speak, her voice soothing. "Honey, you don’t look too good. And your shoulder’s bleeding."

I glance down. My shirt, previously just stained, is now visibly soaked in fresh, dark blood, the wound protesting my recent movements. Just can’t catch a break, can I?

"Let us help you—" she tries to say, but the man cuts her off, his jaw tight.

"No! We are not helping!" Jackson snaps, his voice low and guttural, gritted teeth visible.

"I don’t need your help anyways. I’m fine on my own," I spit back, my own defiance flaring. I don’t want to be around this man, this stranger, any longer. I don’t know why, but he just rubs me the wrong way. He reminds me too much of him.

The woman shoots him a nasty look, her kind face hardening. "We are going to help her, and that’s final, Jackson!"

He sighs, a sound of profound exasperation. "Fine."

"Like I said, I don’t need your help." I try to take a defiant step, but the world tilts. Everything starts to spin, the shed, the trees, the figures before me. I lean heavily on the shed’s rough wall, trying desperately to prevent myself from falling.

How could I let myself end up like this? So weak?

I’m sliding down to the ground when strong arms suddenly wrap around my waist, keeping me upright. I look up, straight into those damn blue eyes. Too familiar. I try to push him away, to break free, but I have no strength left, my body a leaden weight.

He sighs again, a softer sound this time, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You’re still as stubborn as ever," he tells me, his voice a low rumble as he effortlessly lifts me, princess style, into his arms.

"You don’t know me," I breathe out, my voice fading, my gaze fixed on his face. As I meet his eyes, I scrunch up my nose, a sudden, fragmented memory sparking, cold dread spreading through my chest. "I don’t like your eyes. They’re his eyes. Maddox… you’re su…" It’s becoming harder to speak, the darkness encroaching at the edges of my vision, but I force the words out, a desperate, final accusation. "S-supposed to be dead. I killed..." My consciousness finally fades, the world going black, but I swear, just before I succumb, I hear him whisper, "I’m sorry, Aresa. My angel."

I’m not able to move. Not able to open my eyes. My body feels heavy, disconnected. But his words echo, searing themselves into my mind.

How does he know my real name?

It’s not possible. Maybe I just thought I heard him say that, a hallucination brought on by blood loss and exhaustion.

Aresa.

It’s a name I never wanted to hear again. That name is a constant, agonizing reminder of what I used to be, of the life I led, of the things I used to do. How could he possibly know the name, Aresa?