Page 81 of I'll Be Waiting

Only she’s not screaming now.

When I pause, a whimper cuts through the quiet.

Heather.

I stumble toward her, and then my thoughts mend and my feet find their footing, and I break into a jog.

I follow the whimpers, and as I do, I’m not even sure I’m hearing a person, much less Heather. It’s such a soft sound, like some woodland baby critter abandoned by its mother, trying hard to keep silent but unable to suppress those little sounds.

I keep going.

When I reach the clearing, I come out of the trees so fast, I nearly topple again. One minute my hands are moving from tree to tree, and then there’s nothing.

I catch my balance and squint. It’s so damn dark. There must be a moon somewhere, but it’s covered along with the stars, and I can’t see—

A soft sound, like the exhale of breath.

I blink hard, and then I see a figure in a pink hoodie on the ground.

“Heather,” I whisper.

I run forward and drop beside her, only to realize I’m at her back. She’s on her side, fetal position, arms and legs drawn in, and she’s whimpering, ever so softly. Whimpering and shaking.

“Heather?” I touch her shoulder, and she jerks and lets out a mewling sound.

“It’s me,” I whisper. “Nic. You’re okay. I’m here.”

I’m crawling up near her head when she says something I don’t catch.

I stop and lean toward her as I listen.

“Don’t understand,” she whispers. “I don’t understand. I…”

She trails off in a long, slow exhalation. And then she stops shaking.

I scramble around to the front of her. I can just make out her face, pulled down toward her chest. Both arms are drawn in protectively, her knees up.

“Heather?” I whisper.

No answer. She’s passed out. Did she get hit in the head? I don’t see any other sign of injury, but it’s so damn dark I can barely make out anything.

Then the smell hits.

I know that smell, even if I’m too flustered to identify it immediately. It reminds me of babysitting the neighbors’ baby at our old house and—

The smell of soiled diapers. Of piss and shit.

And something else. Something less familiar. Coppery and—

Blood.

I smell piss and shit and blood.

I grab one of Heather’s hands and pull it away from her chest, and it’s red. Soaked so red that my brain refuses to believe it’s blood. It’s a prank, someone squeezing out a whole bottle of ketchup.

Then I see what she’s been covering, and I fall back, retching. I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only sears the image against my eyelids.

Blood and muscle and… and more.

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