As hunters, we were close to death. I knew, theoretically, that everyone died. But the conversation opened a pit in my stomach all the same.
“And don’t sell it. Don’t let some rich fuck come in and build a McMansion on it, or some corporation use it for their needs. Promise?”
“I promise.”
We sit a long time. Maybe I doze. Because then I hear his voice.
Come on, kid. You gotta get up, been sleeping too long. We’ve got to get out of here. We won’t make it home before dark. Wake up, little bird.
I ascend through layers of sleep and find myself in the dark, head throbbing, body aching. Can’t move. My hands are bound behind me and I lie on a hard cold surface.
Oh, God, where am I?
My throat is so raw it’s like breathing fire. Still, I find my voice. And my situation comes back to me in a rush.
“Adam,” I scream. “Adam, what are you doing?”
I writhe against my bindings and find that they have grown tighter, cutting meanly into the delicate flesh of my wrists.
Oh, God. How long? How long have I been here? A sob crawls up from my belly into my throat and I weep, fear and desperation an acid in my gullet. When I’m spent, I lie still, breath rasping. I summon calm, intelligence.
My eyes adjust to the light and I see a cot, a rocking chair, a standing shelf of books, a round area rug. There’s a light source somewhere, a covered window, maybe?
The room evolves from black to a midnight blue. I shift, trying to get myself to a seated position. As I do, my gaze falls on something on the wall, down low near the ground. Words carved into the stone.
I am the storm.
Those words. At once, fierce and desperate, brave and doubting, are the exact pitch of hope. I’ve heard them before. Where? Where? It comes back to me. Mia’s Instagram, one of her inspirational memes. The Universe whispers to the warrior, “You’re not strong enough to defeat the storm.” The warrior’s reply, “I am the storm.”
Sadness is a gut punch. Tears threaten again, but I bite them back.
I am the storm, I say to myself, then say it again, I am the storm. The words infuse me with a new strength, the distant light of hope. I’m still alive. Still ready to fight. It’s something—Mia’s message through time to me. I cling to the faint glimmer it offers.
Finally, a thin sliver of light opens in the darkness, grows wider, an opening door. Then I see you fill the light, your dark form a cardboard cutout of menace. You climb down a creaking staircase.
I want to reach for you, begging, the man I thought you were. And then I think of my mother. Was that how it was for her? Always reaching for someone who was long gone, who perhaps was never there at all. Just a fantasy.
“It doesn’t have to be like this, Wren,” you say at the bottom of the stairs, voice heavy with sadness. “Can we talk? Work this out?”
The question is so innocuous as if we’ve had a minor disagreement that we need to get past. This question has earned a different response from me; that’s why I’m here, beaten, bound, and helpless. I ache with desperation now.
“Yes,” I say, too quickly. “Let’s talk.”
“Good. That’s good.” Relief. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”
You approach, give a disapproving shake of your head as if this all could have so easily been avoided, then lift me easily as if I am a child, carry me up the stairs into the light. I squint against it, my headache raging. Down the hall, to the bedroom, my eyes adjust. You’ve let your beard grow. Your hair is longer, wild. You look bigger; your strength is impossible. You’re barely breathing harder after carrying me up the stairs. Gently, you lay me on the bed where we made love—when? The time here has no beginning and end, no day or night; it’s a terrible warp, a carnival ride of pain.
You snap my binding with a pair of wire cutters you produce from your pocket and my arms are free, but so numb and sore I can barely move them. You leave me on the bed, and I hear the water from the shower start to run.
When you return: “Can you stand?”
You offer me a hand, and I take it to help myself back to my feet. I am wobbly, unsteady, completely naked. You’ve taken my clothes and I don’t know where they are. You help me to the bathroom.
“I’ll give you your privacy.”
What a funny thing to say. You’ve taken everything since I arrived here.
Before I can respond, you shut the door and I am alone in the bathroom that grows warm with the steam from the shower. In the mirror there’s a woman I don’t recognize, her dark hair wild, skin bruised, eyes frightened. She’s folded her shoulders in, wrapped her arms around her middle. Her ribs and collarbone press through pasty skin.