Page 22 of Cruel Cravings

They’re the ones trying to hurt us by any means possible. They’re the ones letting the shadow man hunt us down for sport.

I’ve had enough.

Images of him form in my mind. His massive frame. His featureless face. The dark energy that sucks the air from my lungs.

My hands clench into fists, nails biting at my palms.

He wants me to be afraid. He thrives on it. But what if I take that power away? What if I turn the tables?

A plan starts to take shape, swirling among the chaos that’s my mind. It’s rough and jagged, barely more than an abstract idea, but it’s something. Some sort of foundation I can build off.

Hiding won’t do the trick. Confrontation will.

I have to face him. Find him. Hunt him down like he’s hunted me.

My gaze swings to the cracked mirror above the dresser. My reflection stares back, wild-eyed and clammy, my thick afro like a bird’s nest. I look insane, like I’ve been through hell and back. But there’s a spark. A flicker of defiance. A glint of madness that just might work in my favor if I used it the right way.

For my sister. For myself.

I push off the chair by the window and stand on trembling legs. The sun pours into the room now, flooding it with light. The shadow man is out there, lurking somewhere in the dark. But I won’t let him win.

I’m going to find him.

This time, I’m going to beat him at his own game.

7.Jael

Prayer Factory - Florence + The Machine

Once you have wheels, you have everything.

I spin the key ring around on my finger as I approach the rusted out station wagon parked in the backlot of the Mariner’s Motel.

Hopefully this thing still runs.

It’s been so long since it’s received a wash, there’s dried mud specked on the windows and dust collected on the dashboard. I twist the key in the ignition and listen to the feeble whine of the engine.

“Come on,” I mumble. “This isn’t the time to be shy.”

The engine gives another groan before finally starting up all the way with a thicker rumble. A smile spreads across my face as I promptly click my seatbelt into place and readjust the mirrors.

The motel manager was kind enough to let me borrow his station wagon. All the cash in the drawers too. There wasn’t much considering the Mariner’s Motel has only seen three or four guests over the last few days, but every dollar counts in my situation.

I asked nicely and he understood.

Taking one last glance at the seedy motel in the rearview mirror, I say, “Thanks, Stanley.”

I turn out of the cratered motel parking lot and hit the road. Easton’s city sign slips past me, signaling I’ve crossed over and the city’s nothing more than just a memory.

The road stretches out before me. The buildings quickly dissolve into dense clusters of trees and hills as I head west. The morning sun tracks me as I go, its rays of light falling across the asphalt.

Silence meets my ears. No other cars for miles, just the hum of the station wagon’s engine.

At first I hardly notice how oppressive it is. Then my nerves flutter to life and it begins to bother me. It leaves space for my thoughts to feel the void. For me to notice how every shadow feels like him. Every shape conjures up some part of him.

The thick stretch of trees I drive by. The broken signposts on the shoulder of the road. All of it twists into some form of him when I glance at them too quickly, then glance again to realize I’m mistaken.

At one point, IswearI see him standing by the ditch off the road, his massive frame towering above the underbrush, his face still obscured.

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