Chapter 157: Quiet and Hide
- RORY -
Details that don’t make sense start filtering into my vision, and then I realize I’m squinting and my head hurts. I groan and try to sit up, because apparently I’m lying down, but everything feels so heavy, especially my head.
Someone walks into the room, and I expect to see Westin. What room even is this? What happened?
But the guy isn’t Westin. Did I have some kind of procedure? Was I in an accident? This isn’t a hospital, though. There’s a lot of wood here... like a cabin. I’m surrounded by wood.
"Who are you?" I croak out, squinting at the man who came in.
But then I wish I hadn’t, because his face is mangled. This must be a nightmare. Some kind of nightmare. Why am I sleeping? Was I drugged?
The thought of being drugged has my eyes flying wide, and I shove up in the bed I’m in—no longer finding the heaviness of my limbs that difficult. Adrenaline is pumping through my system in full force now... panic. Panic. Get out. Get away.
"Woah woah," the man says, displaying his palms like that should make me not fear him.
His voice is hoarse. Did I hurt him? Did I make his face look like that? God, I hope so. Because whatever has happened, I don’t remember it. And that means this is bad. This is bad, and he deserves every single messed up inch of that face.
My eyes lower to my clothes, and a brief surge of relief overtakes me when I see I’m still wearing them. But they’re black. This dress.... I was at a funeral today. How did I get here?
And Westin left. The bastard. Good riddance. Why would I think he would be here with me?
When the man in the room walks closer, I go back into panic mode and scramble away, fumbling with the covers I’m on and eventually falling off of the bed on my ass. It doesn’t even hurt. That’s what fear does... all I can feel is the fear.
Footsteps come fast around the end of the bed, and unfortunately I’m too slow to get up. I should run, jump over the bed... get out of here, wherever here is. He has a syringe in his hand, and there is no way in hell he’s getting anywhere near me with that thing.
"No offense," he says and lunges for me, making an attempt to grab my legs but I start kicking wildly at him—aiming for the face. He curses and lays his entire body on my legs to keep me from hitting him, and then I watch as he removes the cap of the syringe.
Oh hell no.
I bring my fist down on the side of his head using one of the techniques I learned and then go for his hand, knocking the syringe free so it goes skittering across the floor somewhere. He snarls and tries to wrangle me, crawling up my body with all of his mass weighing down, attempting to keep me pinned. That’s when I start screaming, true panic rising, and all training goes out the window.
No, I’m not going to be in the situation again. I’m never going to be in this situation again.
He has injuries. He has so many injuries, and I just start swinging wildly and clawing at the spots that look painful while I keep trying to kick and wiggle from underneath. Soft flesh gives way under my nails, likely creating more wounds in their wake, but I don’t stop until he finally cries out and rolls off of me.
And then I’m up. I launch myself over the bed, terrified he’s going to grab my ankle and pull me back down. Out the door, running wildly through rooms I don’t recognize until by some grace of God I find the exit and swing it open. In my mind, he’s behind me. He’s always only a step away. He’s about to catch me, so I have to just keep running and running without looking back.
There are so many trees. They’re dense, and I don’t recognize anything. This must be a cabin in the woods. This fucker took me to a cabin in the woods.
I land on something sharp that pierces one of my bare feet, and I fall, landing on all fours. No. I can’t stop.
When I whirl around, sure my attacker is right there about to pounce, I’m relieved to see that he’s nowhere to be found. The only sounds I hear are my panicked pants and the rush of adrenaline in my ears.
Sobs start trying to break from my throat, but I press my lips together and crawl for one of the trees. I’ll hide behind this trunk in case he comes over the hill behind me. He can’t find me. I won’t let him find me.
I have to be quiet and hide. Regain my breath. Take this sharp thing out of my foot. Get my energy. Think. Plan. Be smart. I can do this. I’m a survivor. I’m a fighter. I can do this.
My hands are shaking when I finally make it behind the wide girth of the trunk and sit down to take a look at my foot. It’s just a stick that I landed on the wrong way. God, it looks horrible though. I have to get it out or I won’t be able to walk.
With teeth clenched and one hand bracing the top of my foot, I yank the stick out, sobs finally erupting when I do. But then it’s over, and I cradle my foot and let my head drop back against the trunk.
What the hell happened? How did I get here? I can’t remember anything after the funeral for Dex’s dad—a man that I didn’t even know. I just showed up to be supportive, because Dex is important to my sister. How did I go from that situation to this?
Who was that guy? I feel my face pinch, wanting to give into the emotions that are confused and angry and terrified. But I don’t have time for that. He could sneak up behind me.
Shit. Think, Rory, think.
Hills. Dense trees. Where am I? How am I going to get myself out of this?
I should have looked for keys and a car on my way out, but I wasn’t thinking. It looked like I came out the back way.
I have a feeling the only way I’m going to get out of this in any favorable condition is if someone knows to look for me, because I could be anywhere. I hope someone does. Raya or dad. Obviously Westin won’t.
Raya, if you can hear me: please help. Please come find me. I need you.
