The Break-Up Retreat(59)

I lie very, very still.

The steps quiet down. They’re standing still. They can’t see me.

One of the hard, thorny little bushes is stinging my face, digging into the soft skin on my cheek. It hurts, but I dare not move.

The cold damp of the softly rotting fallen pines and moss underneath me is seeping into the fabric of my pants, my shirt. Something runs down my cheek. If it’s blood or sweat or rain, I can’t say.

My breathing is short and shallow, coming in explosive little bursts. I press my lips together, trying to stay quiet.

“Don’t be scared.”

It’s a whisper. No more. The voice sounds familiar. I can’t place it. I don’t know if I’m imagining the recognition. My very thoughts have gotten small, become naught more than basal instincts. More commands than cognition.

I am prey, hiding quietly, praying to go unnoticed. To live another day.

Another few steps. Slow, but not hesitant. Moving closer.

And there’s a smell, too. Wafting over.

Heavy, and metallic, and instantly recognizable. Had I never smelled it before, I would still know it in my very bones.

It’s blood.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

Such a sweet promise.

I know it for a lie the way the rabbit knows the wolf.

Staring at the light, I silently fill my lungs with air, until it feels like they might burst. I blink until my vision unblurs, until I see that taunting light beyond the trees with more clarity than I have ever seen anything before.

There’s a strange calm inside me. One I’ve never felt before.

One chance.

This is not a game, anymore. There’s no room for mistakes.

Another step. This one can’t be more than seven or eight yards away. Even in the night, they’ll be able to see me, soon. Or sense me. Feel the difference in the air near the trembling mass of me.

I tense my arms.

“Can we talk?”

The whisper harsher, now. More urgent. The smell of blood growing stronger.

I push myself to my feet, and I run.

The pain in my feet is gone. I can’t feel the cold. I know only that I need to get to that light.

The trees part before me, the light growing closer. The wind is tearing at me, threatening to throw me down, but I won’t let it.

For a few seconds, I am flying.

And then I stumble out from the woods, back onto the neatly trimmed lawn, the cabins stretching out before me.

I want to turn around. But I can’t let myself.

I can’t remember who is where. I can’t even remember which one is mine. They all look the same, in the night; small, and forbidding, and anonymous. Like they could hide anything and protect nothing.

Running over to the next nearest cabin, I almost trip, again, over one of those stupid fucking inspirational rocks. Stopping for a second, I reach down to pick it up. Maybe I can use it to defend myself.

“Isobel?”

I stop, and I straighten, rock held firmly in hand.

Clara is standing a about twelve feet away from me.

When she smiles, I see that her lip is bleeding.

“What’s wrong?”





Chapter 32


I clench the rock in my hand, my fingers aching, the slick stone surface icy cold against my skin.

“Back away,” I tell Clara, and I barely recognize my own voice. It’s a scratchy growl, more fit for an animal than a person.

“Jesus, what is going on with you?” Clara asks, in a low hush.

Her usually immaculate hair is hanging in stringy ropes around her shoulders, and in the light from the cabin, I can see that her face is shiny with sweat.

“What did you do?” I ask her. “Where is Sandra?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Clara asks, in a harsh, whispered shout. “You look insane. Why are you bleeding?”

She takes a step toward me, stretching out her hand.

I back up, raising the rock.

“Have you lost it?” Clara stops. “Is this a psychotic break or something? Fuck.” She shakes her head.

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t out there!” I’m nearly shouting.

“Lower your voice ,” Clara hisses at me. “Someone will hear you, you idiot.”

Her face is twisted, her usual lilting way of speaking sliding off her words to give way to a slightly deeper, more obviously upper-class accent.

“What were you doing out there?” I ask her. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you lunatic!” Clara exclaims. “Now put the rock down. What are you going to do, brain me with that thing?”

She looks at my hand with disgust. The wind catches her hair, throwing the pink strands around her face, some of them sticking to the blood at the corner of her mouth.

“No.” I grip it harder. “So, what, are you saying you weren’t out in the woods just now?”

“Why would I have been in the woods?” Clara asks, trying to free her face from the tangles of hair. “What, were you out there?” She stops, and stares at me.

A beat passes. Two.

I look over at the trees. Strain my eyes to try to see in between them.

The adrenaline has begun to recede. All that’s left behind is shaking muscles, and the sudden, stinging pain from the long, sharp slash along my cheek, the aching in the soles of my feet, the tension in my jaw.