Page 61 of Stream & Scream
And this time, I won’t just take her. I’ll break her down to nothing and build her back into something that only answers to me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Olivia
Sunday night.
After running for what feels like forever, I find myself at the edge of what looks like civilization's last desperate foothold in this forest of horrors. A ranger station, or what used to be one before time and weather and years of neglect turned it into a crumbling shack.
The structure is small, 100 square feet at most, built from logs that have gone gray with age and exposure to the elements. Half the roof has caved in, leaving broken rafters pointing at the sky in a splintered mess. Cracked windows that are barely hanging on.
But it's a shelter. Walls, mostly. A door that still hangs on its hinges, even if those hinges scream in protest when I push it open. It has a floor that's only partially rotted through. It’s a little protection from the elements and it’ll provide me with a place to sit and think. I won’t be able to clear my head here, but if I can just put together a few cohesive thoughts, maybe I can still win this thing and walk out with half a million dollars and my life.
Plus this little shack is more than I had five minutes ago when I was running mostly naked through the forest.
I stumble through the doorway and immediately start dragging furniture—what's left of it—across the threshold. A broken desk that weighs a fuck-ton more than it should, chairs with missing legs that still provide bulk if not stability, chunks of debris that might have once been shelving or storage units. Anything that might slow down someone trying to force their way inside.
Not that furniture will stop him if he decides he wants in. Nothing will stop him if he's made up his mind and has come to collect me. But maybe the barricade will buy me enough time to find a way to get away. I just have to last until morning.
The physical effort of moving broken furniture helps ground me, giving my body something to do while my mind tries to make sense of the chaos in my head. Sweat mixes with the other fluids on my skin.
I feel gross.
I can still feel him. Not just the lingering ache between my thighs where his piercings pounded into me, though that's certainly part of it. But something more. It has to do with the way he intently watched me while he fucked me once he was free of his mask. And the way he wasn’t afraid to tell me exactly what he wanted, and even less afraid to take it. The thought of him consumes me whole, swallowing me into a spiral of the memory of his hands and his mouth, and how he whispered so much filth against my ear while he fucked me—it all replays in my mind over and over again until I’m questioning if this is all just a terrible dream. It’s some fantasy land deep in my fucked up head, and I’m going to wake up in a few hours feeling confused with myself, and then later I’ll convince myself to call my therapist before this materializes into something real. Something I can’t come back from.
But I know that’s not what’s happening.
This is real. It’s all so fuckingreal.
The soreness in my muscles, the lingering bite mark on my shoulder, the slick between my inner thighs—all of it confirms that yes, it happened. Yes, I bent over an oak tree and screamed my pleasure into the night while he fucked me. Yes, I watched him murder someone who accidentally stumbled upon us and felt aroused instead of horrified.
Yes, I am exactly as broken as he said I was. And maybe someday I will learn to love every fractured piece of what that makes me. Or maybe I’ll fix it with my therapist when I finally decide to give her a call.
Heat begins to pool low and tight in my stomach, making me clench my thighs together to relieve the building ache.
Fuck.
This isn’t what I’m here for.
I shake my head, then begin to explore a little bit. It’s immediately clear the ranger station has been abandoned for years, maybe decades. Dust covers everything in thick grey layers. Dead moths and spiders are scattered throughout every square foot of this place.
Most of the equipment is rusted beyond usefulness—radios, maps that show hiking trails now long overgrown, emergency supplies that expired when I was still in high school. But buried in a drawer that sticks and screeches like nails on a chalkboard when I force it open, I find something that could be useful if it works. These things are supposed to be built to last.
A flare gun.
There are three spare flares in a small cardboard box next to it, red cylinders that would make bright light and smoke. It could be seen for miles if I can shoot it high enough. It could also be used to scare the shit out of someone if they’re after me. It could buy me a few seconds of time.
I turn the flare gun over in my hands, feeling its weight and figuring out exactly how it works. It's not much of a weapon—single shot, it would take forever to reload, and it’s designed for signaling rather than fighting—but it'ssomething. It’s the closest thing I’ve come to a weapon.
I set the flare gun aside and continue exploring, looking for anything else that might be useful.
There's not much. Some canned food that's probably safe if I was desperate enough, a rusty first aid kit that contains mostly bandages and expired antiseptic.
Night falls while I'm still processing today's events, still trying to reconcile the person I thought I was with the person I’ve become.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jaxen
