Page 39 of Shadows in Bloom

When I don’t hear a sound, I begin removing the heavy, rusted chains. Again, I allow them to drop noisily onto the stone, and I wait once more. I pace the cell, scrub my hands over my face and twist my fingers through my hair, tugging on the strands until I wince in pain.

With my heart still pounding, and my hands shaking, desperation fuels my actions and I turn the latch on the cell door to push it open. Ignoring the loud creak of the old, rusted steel, I step, barefoot, out of the cell and head straight towards the workbench.

On the wall, a collection of tools hang. Saws, hammers, axes, drills, and an assortment of screwdrivers. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I reach out to take one of the larger hammers but stop with my hand midair when I notice the blood on the claw.

I shake my head hard before reaching for a smaller hammer. I weigh it in my hand, gripping it against my palm and giving it a few short swings. Satisfied I’ll be able to use it as a weapon if the need arises, I shove the handle down the back of my pants and pull my t-shirt over it.

Making my way out of the asylum was too easy, leading me to believe that this was Salem’s plan all along.

From where I’m crouched in the bushes, I look up at the asylum’s dark, macabre façade, and consider traipsing back through the detritus and down into the bowels of the dank basement.

I bring my hand up to my neck and trail my fingertips along the rough scars that spread across my collarbone and shoulders. Memories of fire, pain, and heat, assaults my senses and the acrid stench of smoke wafts below my nostrils even though there’s not a hint of it in sight.

I drop my head back and look up to the star scattered sky. As long as I live and breathe, Salem resides beneath the same sky. He’ll come for me again, there is not a shred of doubt in my mind.

The first time he took me, I was fifteen, and stupidly smitten with the confident, older man with dark eyes and a sexy smirk who spoke all the words my teenage self wanted to hear.

Fifteen years later, there’s a piece of Salem buried deep inside me. Seared into the very marrow of my bones. And as I stare back at the asylum, I wonder why I cling to those pieces as though I need them more than I need the air I breathe.

Shaking my head, I internally curse myself before I turn and run, putting the asylum and thoughts of Salem at my back.

Somehow, I make it out of Newhaven by sprinting through the dense forest until I reach a steep embankment that leads down to a highway. Tentatively, I make my way down the embankment, the loose rocks and soil slipping beneath my feet as I grip onto tree trunks and sturdy branches. I’m almost at the bottom when my bare feet give way, and I slide down, grasping and flailing as the rocks and debris graze my skin.

My body tumbles until it hits the bitumen and I come to a stop on the side of the road. I push myself up, wincing in pain when my elbow gives way and I slump back to the ground.

Slowly, I lift my arm and feel a warm tickle. Turning it slightly, the streetlights allow me to catch a glimpse of a gash along the back of my arm.

As a car drives by, its headlights light up a truck stop ahead and I get to my feet and start walking, cradling my wounded arm against myself.

At the empty truck stop, I slump down behind a concrete toilet block. Nodding on and off, I’m startled awake by bright lights and the roar of a truck engine.

I attempt to get to my feet but cry out in pain when my muscles seize and the wound in my arm burns.

“Is someone there?” a deep voice calls. “I’ve got a weapon, and I’m not fuckin’ ‘round.”

“Help,” I call out. “Please, help.”

A phone torch shines in my direction, and I raise my hands as much as my wounded arm will allow to show I’m not a threat. “Fuck, you’re bleeding mate, what the hell happened to you?”

He raises his phone, to dial an ambulance no doubt, but I call out, “No, please don’t call anyone. Please, can you just take me somewhere, anywhere away from here.”

He narrows his eyes, suspicious. “You in trouble with the law or somethin’.”

“My ex,” I choke out. “He—” I stop, wondering if this guy will turn on me if he knows I’m gay. “I need to get away from here, please.”

His footsteps come closer, and I prepare myself for a beating, but the guy, around sixty years old with a bald head, and a long, grey beard, reaches out to me. “Come on, let me help you into my truck. Got a first aid kit up there.”

“Thank you.” I allow him to help me to my feet, hoping I haven’t traded one crazed maniac for another.

With my arm cleaned and dressed with gauze and a bandage, I lay in the back of the trucker’s cab and close my eyes as I listen to the sound of the road noise.

“Your ex sounds like a fuckin’ psychopath mate. You sure you don’t wanna go to the cops?”

“I can’t,” I say. “He knows so many of them.”

“Fuckin’ dirty cop bastards,” the trucker, whose name is Barton says. “I know a few guys. Some real mean ones, you just give me a name and I’ll make sure that asshole doesn’t lay another hand on ya.”

I smile at the conviction in his tone, but it quickly turns into a frown when I realise this man will die if Salem ever discovers he spoke to me, let alone helped me escape.

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