Page 80 of I'll Be Waiting

I need to be better than this. I can’t let anything slow me down, freak me out. Once I start allowing that, I will never stop. I can’t think of how long I have to live, can’t listen to speculation about my life span, can’t imagine what it would be like to die because I can no longer breathe, because my body has betrayed me, because it has been betraying me since I was born.

My body is not the enemy. It did not betray me. My body and I are enduring this disease together, and that body does so much for me. In that moment, I need to focus on what itcando.

What it can do is spin, fists ready, self-defense lessons flying back.

But there’s no one to hit. Nothing to fight. It’s so dark that someone could be right there, laughing at me—

No, I see dim shapes. Trees and bushes, enough to know nobody is there.

I stop breathing and listen. The forest has gone silent, and I can’t hear anyone moving. No one is—

There! Off to my left. A twig crack, a rustle, someone on the move, but not near me. Heading back to the clearing.

I run to where I think the flashlight fell, but the thick undergrowth hides it. I smack around, hoping to touch down on plastic, but when I don’t, all I can think about is that someone is walking toward the clearing where Heather waits.

The irrational part of me panics with thoughts of Heather, alone and frightened while there is someone in this forest, someone who hit me, and I need to get back to Heather before she’s hurt.

The rational part insists that the sounds are Patrice heading back to the clearing after smacking me, and that my real concern should be that they’ll argue and Heather will stomp off and drive home, leaving me behind.

Either way, I take two more seconds to find the flashlight, and when I don’t, I head for the clearing, waving my arms in front of me so I don’t smack into a tree.

“Samantha!”

I stop, stumbling over my feet. The voice came from my left, in the direction of those footsteps. It’s not the male voice from last week. It sounds like Patrice, but it’s so raw and hoarse I can barely make out words.

“I know you’re out here!” she shouts. “Don’t think I won’t find you! I can smell you, bitch.”

I stand there, frozen. Then I take a slow step backward. When I strike a tree trunk, I clap both hands over my mouth before I yelp.

“You are never getting out of here,” she yells. “I will cut you open, and I will gut you.”

Hands still over my mouth, I force my feet to move, slowly, not daring to crunch down on anything.

Get to Heather. Get her out of here. Call the police. Send them back for Patrice.

But what if this is all part of Patrice’s prank?

I don’t give a shit. I don’t care if it’s a prank and Patrice tells everyone I called the cops, and they all think I’m a very silly girl. Fuck them.

I keep moving, step by careful—

“N-no,” Heather’s voice sounds, sharp with alarm. “It’s me. It’s just me. I—”

She screams, and it is a sound I will never forget, an animal cry of terror and pain.

I break into a run. I’m charging toward the sound of Heather’s voice, and she is screaming, and I am running blindly through the forest when I smack headlong into a tree so hard it knocks me back.

I stagger and keep upright, but I’m woozy, confused. Blood pours from my nose, into my open mouth, and I spit, doubling over. Blood spatters the bushes, and for a moment, I stare, transfixed.

Then I remember why I was running.

I stagger forward, my wispy thoughts refusing to stitch into coherence. When I catch movement, relief floods me.

“Heather,” I breathe.

Only it’s not Heather. It’s just a shadow, darting through the trees. I start to follow it.

No, remember Heather. You heard her scream.

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