Page 96 of Nave
It wasn’t over.
I wasn’t screwed.
I had the home-field advantage.
I knew where I was going.
He didn’t.
Especially not in the dark.
I yanked away hard enough to make both of us stumble. Ben whacked back into a tree. I used the momentum to propel me forward out of the orchard.
He wasn’t far behind as I rushed past the rows of carefully sewn fields, pivoting over toward the back of the pig pen.
But before my hand could reach toward the compost pile—teeming with dirt, with rotting food, with crap, with bugs—a hand crushed my wrist, jerking me off balance. Pain shot all the way up my arm, making me cry out as I staggered backward to ease the ache.
It moved me closer to Ben, though.
And the closeness to him had my belly flipping over, had bile rising up my throat.
He yanked my hand up, nearly pressing me against his chest.
“You’re coming back with me. And you’re going to forget all about this little attempt at freedom.”
He was deranged.
Well, I could be just as crazy.
I whipped around, ignoring the jolt of pain through my wrist as I reached toward the compost with my free hand, ignoring the way my own instincts recoiled at the filth that was coating my skin, was wedging under my fingernails.
It didn’t matter.
I could get clean again.
If he got me back to the glass house, I would never get free again.
I whipped back around, lifting my hand, and smearing the reeking compost down Ben’s face.
A roar escaped him as he released me to lift his shirt, trying to get the mess off of him.
My heart lurched, half triumph, half horror.
But I knew how his mind worked.
He would never feel clean again.
He would feel the rot and bugs and shit all over his face for the rest of his life.
I was riding high on that knowledge as I turned and ran again.
But there were obstacles all around here, remnants of the farm stand build that the girls had been working on strewn about, making me slow so I didn’t trip.
My hand shot out toward the items sitting on top of a piece of plywood set on sawhorses.
My fingers tightened around the handle of the screwdriver, wondering if I would have it in me to drive it through flesh, through an eyeball.
I thought of the glass house.
