Page 30 of Braving the Storm
That’s something I can do.
That’s what I need to do. Right now, I need to be away from my phone, outside these four walls.
Shoving into my boots, I grab the jacket I’ve been wearing since the first day he gave it to me and yank open the door much harder than I need to.
I want to scream into the void.
Can I do that here?
There’s no one around to hear me.
I spot the ax handle sticking upright in the large chopping base and make a beeline for it. It takes two hands and a sharp tug to get it loose, but it feels weighty and deadly in my hand.
For a moment, I pause; there are about a thousand things that could go wrong trying to split wood. Top of that list would be potentially chopping off my own damn foot if I’m not careful. Except I’m in a savage enough mood, I really don’t give a fuck.
The rage is at boiling point, and I want to slam this sharp metal head into wood and hear the satisfying thunk and splintering of fibers giving way.
So that's exactly what I do.
Setting the wood before me, I swing the ax, feeling the weight distribution and flexing my hands over the smooth grip on the handle.
Then, I let it sail down, allowing the momentum and swing and blunt force to do the damage.
The log cracks. Not giving way fully, so Itug the ax head out and repeat the process. Second time it splits with a cathartic, tearing, splintering noise.
God, that felt good. Like a tiny fraction of the emotion I’ve been carrying around and repressing constantly for years could finally fling out into the universe. That pent-up anger has transformed into something useful and split that log to be used in the fire at some future point in time.
I morph into the picture of a woman possessed. Starting small. Some of my attempts are weak, but with each blow, I let the rage eke out gradually, becoming a torrent, finally evolving into a full-on downpour. Giving my best warrior cry as I swing and land blows, all the while salty tears stream down my cheeks.
Cheater.
Liar.
Asshole.
Well, shit. Turns out you hand me an ax and some firewood to chop, and that shit is more fucking cathartic than any overpriced LA therapist.
Time disappears on me, and when I finally stop, sweat beading on my lower back and dampening my forehead, I pause to breathe heavily, and taking a look around, it’s obvious I’ve chopped far more than I originally intended to. A much bigger pile exists than we potentially needed, but oh well.
Chalk that up to feminine rage.
I wedge the ax back in the block where I found it, and gather up an armful of wood to carry around to the pile on the porch. I’ll start there and then finish up by stacking whatever we need inside afterward.
With the few chunky pieces bundled in my arms, I head for the front of the cabin, feeling incredibly self-satisfied. Down this side is still shaded, between the cabin and tall pines, and there’s a bit of a concrete pad outside what looks like a small workshop.
Just as I’m looking around, taking in the quiet beauty out here is when everything turns on me, without warning.
My boot hits the concrete and instantly gives way. With myarms full, there’s no possible way to break my fall. Both legs flip up, and I cartwheel backward.
My breath leaves my lungs in a crunching rush, a heavy blow to my spine.
The last thing I remember is the dull thud ricocheting through my brain as the back of my head collides with the ground.
The trees towering over me, peering down like curious statues, are swallowed up in a misty black void.
Chapter 11
Eight seconds.
