Page 4 of Taunting Tarran
‘Tarran,’ I reply, feeling a sense of safety wash over me as he grasps my hand tighter.
‘Well, Tarran,’ he says confidently, ‘I don’t know where the fuck we are, but whatever happens, youwillsurvive.Wewill survive. I’ve been watching him,the farmer, for a while. Now is our chance,’ he whispers urgently.
‘But I’m scared,’ I protest, my voice trembling.
‘I know,’ he replies, ‘but if we want to make it out alive instead of emerging out of that pig’s arsehole, we haveto leave now!’
‘What about everyone else?’ I ask, gesturing to the men, women and children who line the metal bars of our cage, whimpering and crying in various states of consciousness.
‘They’re too weak to move,’ he counters.
‘Then I’ll come back for them,’ I promise as my eyes scan the other captives.
‘But right now we have to save ourselves. Grab my hand and do as I say,’ he demands.
When The Pig Farmer returns, we stand at opposite ends of the cage. As he unlocks the door, his head swings back and forth, uncertain of which one of us to take first. Suddenly, when he looks left towards the boy, I see an opening chance, my opportunity to charge forward, and bolt from my confines. With all my strength, I push the farmer towards the bars and quickly grab the boy’s hand beneath the farmer’s flailing arms. We dart out of the cage just as The Pig Farmer stumbles forward trying to grab onto something for balance.
The forest floor is cold and damp underfoot as we run blindly from camp. The vast and untamed wilderness stretching out before us unfurling like an endless canvas of rugged beauty. Jagged mountains pierce the sky like watchful sentinels as their peaks are hidden in a cloak of lush pine and olive trees. With each stride, sharp rocks cut deep into my bare feet as the stony ground shifts and crumbles, threatening to twist my ankle as I run for freedom.
I quicken my pace, each step seeming louder than the last, yet no matter how fast I run I can’t escape the feeling of beinghunted, of being an unknowing participant in a game – a game I am all too familiar with. My heart pounds as we race through the trees, their gnarled branches snagging at my clothing like skeletal hands.
‘We’re almost there,’ I pant. ‘Just keep running.’ But then, in an instant, my hand slips from his. I stop and turn, but he’s gone.
No! Oh no, no, no.I panic.
‘RUN!’ he shouts in raspy breaths behind me somewhere deep in the shadows.
‘COME ON!’ I yell back. ‘IT’S NOT FAR, YOU CAN DO IT.’
‘Just go, Tarran. Live! For both of us.’
As the sun begins to set and darkness envelopes me, I wait for the boy to catch up. But after five minutes, there is still no sign of him. I become the frightened lamb he called me, and our pursuer, the relentless wolf, is prowling ever closer, savouring the thrill of the chase.
Maybe the boy is hiding? Maybe he passed me while I was waiting for him? Maybe he’s waiting for me?
But before I can think any further, a hard smack to my face brings me back to reality. The sharp sting of a wire fence tells me I have already reached the perimeter of the land, and the boy is nowhere to be seen. With frantic desperation, I drop to my knees and claw at the earth, digging underneath the wire fence. Finally breaking through, I emerge on the other side and take one last look at the black and white signs that read: “Coto Privado”– a hunting reserve. Grandfather had taught me mosthuntingcotosare typically nestled in more remote and rural areas, but often on private properties. Dread hangs in the pit of my stomach, because if this is a hunting reserve, then I’m in the middle of fucking nowhere and even God himself won’t hear my screams.
My chest heaves with each desperate gasp, the air burning my lungs as I struggle to draw breath. Fear grips me so tightly, it’s like a vice around my throat, hugging my ribcage and squeezing the very life out of me.
My vision starts to blur as I try to stay conscious, the terror behind me leaves me on the brink of collapse. However, summoning every last ounce of energy, I stumble onto the road and run as fast as I can away from this place, hoping to never see it again.
CHAPTER2
THE BUTCHERBIRD
Present day
This year marks a poignant milestone; it’s been twenty years since I made my escape from that dreaded place, and it still doesn’t feel real. Two decades have passed, filled with countless therapy sessions and thousands of pounds spent in search of “healing”.
I started therapy years ago, initially at twenty-three because of my mother’s constant criticism, and suffocating expectations. I went because that’s whatnormalpeople did; suffer trauma, and then go to therapy. In the end, five years of sessions with Gillian Gladwish had cost me a small fortune, and I was no better off,so I stopped going. And so many of her remarks felt like bad stand-up routines or just plain rude.
‘Your problem,’she would say,‘is that you keep auditioning for a role in your mother’s drama.’I just rolled my eyes. This wasn’t going anywhere, because the casting directorisa lunatic.
For years I had convinced myself her crude behaviour was a veil for her genius – highly recommended by Anna the smart one in our group who couldn’t stop singing her praises.
I never did tell her I started seeing Gillian – that would have opened a can of worms ofwhy, and when I stopped seeing the therapist, they’d also want to knowwhyto that too, and the truth was, because half of the time I felt like I was paying to get roasted.
Fuck. Why did I stop going?
