Page 3 of Forever Bound

At any rate, I was clearly doomed.

I was a George RR Martin character who had done the right thing and so obviously must pay with my life.

And now I'm waiting for a god to come and kill me.

Likely I'll just end up dying of hypothermia and blood loss by morning, and that will be the end of Evangeline Love.

I blink through blood again, which is mixing with my tears now.

The man seems satisfied I won't be making an escape anytime soon, so he turns his attention to a woman who joins him. She speaks harshly, her aged face lined with years and disapproval. He grunts, then proceeds to ignore her, much to her clear annoyance.

I feel ya there, sister.

But there can be no camaraderie right now. Since I'm still gagged and all.

Is she making an appeal for my release?

What is the point of all this?

I know Ukrainians aren't backwards people who use human sacrifice as a religious experience. From all Yana has told me, it's a beautiful country with kind people, despite its political turmoil.

There were no Yelp reviews that prepared me for this kind of treatment. I mean, I know Yana said to make sure I take my shoes off when entering someone's home, and to not show the bottom of my foot to someone when sitting before them, but One: I'm pretty sure I haven't had a chance to break any social niceties, and Two: this kind of punishment would be a tad overkill.

My wavering thoughts flicker to the poor souls who shared the plane with me. What happened to Yana? To the rest of the passengers and crew? Are they all dead? Did no one else survive? Or were they maybe found by a less sadistic village? That would be nice, if extremely optimistic.

My heart lurches at the memory of Yana’s smile. Her laugh. Her unique way at looking at the world.

She can’t be dead. It’s not possible.

But of course it is.

We all die eventually. And none of us are guaranteed another day with any certainty. I should know that more than most.

My thoughts are interrupted by a man standing to the side of the group holding an extremely long horn of some kind. He blows into it, and the music instantly stops, as does any dancing and chatter.

Everyone turns towards the forest, which is now darkening with long stretches of shadow cast by the rising full moon.

Something shifts in the energy of the villagers. The smell of fear catches on the wind, and people begin to fidget.

They clearly believe something big is about to happen.

Goosebumps form on my cold skin, despite my rational mind arguing that nothing scary is going to come out of that forest.

But does it really matter?

I'm going to die one way or another—that much is becoming clear.

At least dying by a mythical god-like creature in the Ukrainian woods would be more interesting than dying from the cold.

Is this how my parents and sister felt, I wonder? Did they know the end was coming, or was it as sudden and instant as the police said it was?

Is it better to know the moment of your impending death, or to be surprised by it?

Right now I'd rather be surprised.

Knowing isn't making this experience more fun.

As the final rays of sunlight disappear, the villagers follow suit, slipping into the shadows as torches are put out.

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