Page 1 of Forrest
1
Skye
Mountains.Everywhere I look there are mountains and trees and grass and blue skies. It’s enough to make a girl feel sick… or maybe that’s last night’s alcohol.
Bridget Jones made getting drunk alone with a broken heart look so fun. But, in real life, it’s not quite so glamorous.
In fact, it’s damn right depressing. Or maybe it’s because I’ve never been much of a drinker.
Either way, I’m learning wine and whiskey don’t mix. Which is strange. The two words sound so good together. Wine. Whiskey. Like peanut butter and jelly. Starsky and Hutch. Ice cream and sandwich.
“Whiskey,” I moan, almost gagging at the mere thought of it. “Why are you trying to kill me? Sun,” I ask, looking up into the sky and shielding my eyes from its horrific brightness, “why are you trying to blind me. Trees,” I swing my arm at the never-ending forest beside me. Emploring it to give me a reasonable answer. “Why?” I ask. “Tell me why I was so stupid to get involved with my boss? Why did I trust him? Why did I let him humiliate me in front of all my colleagues? In front of all my friends? How was I so stupid, I didn’t even realize he was sleeping with his assistant for a whole month? Were there not any warning signs? Didn’t I notice the faint hint of perfume on his jacket? Didn’t I wonder how lipstick ended up on the collar of his shirt when I hadn’t even seen him yet that day? How could I have been so blind?”
Unsurprisingly, the trees don’t have much to give me in the way of answers. Or consolation. They just wobble about looking fabulous. Little ripples of dark green shadow floating through their ranks like clouds of glorious doom tickling their tonsils with a toothbrush on Tuesday.
“All I want is to curl up in bed.” I walk back up the steps to the entrance of the cabin, tears running down my cheek. Alcohol sweating out from every pore in my body. My bottom lip stuck out like a toddler and my chin wobbling. I try to stop myself from completely losing it, but it's a losing battle. “A box of chocolates, a tub of ice cream. An endless supply of shows to watch on Netflix. To be loved by a good, kind man with abs and a big fat dick and the kind of eyes I can stare into and get lost in and wake up to in the morning and wonder how in heaven I got so lucky. Is that too much to ask?”
Letting out a sigh, I look around the cabin. It’s a mess. Soiled Kleenex's litter the floor like it's an abstract modern art installation called 'Tears of Shame'.
Half-empty wine glasses are strategically placed on shelves and tables and on the floor next to chairs. Half full of their deadly red liquid. Giving the room a pungent smell, not unlike my old Aunt Jodie’s house.
“Oh, Jodie,” I say, slowly bending over to pick up some garbage from the floor. “I’m sorry I ever judged you. I understand now. I get it. I know how it feels to be all alone and without hope. To be singing Celine Dion songs with a glass of Kentucky's finest in one hand and a glass of red in the other. Two o’clock in the morning, and nowhere to go. Tears streaming down my face. Red cheeks. The general feeling that I’ll never be good enough, and that there’ll always be another, thinner, prettier girl out there, ready to steal my man and that no matter what I do I’m destined to live a life of misery and solitude and that maybe I should just give up and accept my fate. Buy a half dozen cats and start acting like they’re my children. Send out weird Christmas cards with them all dressed up in hand-knitted sweaters. Me in the middle. Crazy-eyed and half drunk. Wishing everyone a happy Christmas from me and the ‘kids’.” I throw a handful of Kleenex’s in the trash and lean against the counter. “Yes, Aunt Jodie, cats, and an early, alcohol-ridden grave. It doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe it’s my destiny, too.”
I swing open the cupboard doors in search of food, but they might as well be empty. Flour. Sugar. Oil. A random assortment of spices and herbs. Even Gordon Ramsey would struggle to make anything appetizing out of this crap.
When Uncle Pete told me I could use his cabin in the woods, he forgot to mention there wouldn’t be any food in the place.
“I’m going to have to drive to town,” I say, still talking to myself. “The only problem is…” I tap my chin thoughtfully, “that would involve putting on some real clothes. Having a shower. Going outdoors again and, god forbid, conversing with other members of the public.”
My stomach grumbles. “Good point.” I pinch the top of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, trying to summon the energy needed to go and get supplies from the local convenience store. A half sick, half hungry kind of feeling washes over me. My legs are weak. I have to lean against the counter. “But maybe I should lay down first. Just for a little while.” I look at the watch on my wrist. “It’s only five o’clock in the morning. Maybe a nap is what I need.”
Slowly, I make my way to the bedroom. Collapsing onto the covers. My face buried in the pillow. My head throbbing and my neck aching and the blackness of sleep slowly creeping into my mind like someone's just shot me in the ass with an elephant tranquilizer.
Then, just as I’m falling asleep. Just as my mind is filling up with fantastical thoughts of chocolate chip brownies and banana milkshakes and half-naked European men covered in oil giving me earth-shattering massages, the worst thing in human history happens…
Whack!
It’s like razor blades slicing through my brain.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
I sit up in bed, clasping my head. Blindly searching for the source of this horrendous noise.
Whack!
Somehow, I get out of bed and storm outside. I cover my ears and look up at the sky and yell, “stop! For the love of God, please, stop! I can’t take it anymore! You win! I give up! Just stop making so much fucking noise!”
2
Forrest
I raisemy ax in the air one more time, but before I swing it down, I freeze.
There’s a faint whimpering sound coming from the direction of Pete’s cabin.
I cock my ear in the air to make sure I’m right. Stillness creeps into my brain. Familiar sounds. And then a scream. Loud. Desperate. Blood-curdling.
Dropping my ax, I run towards the cabin. Being careful not to step on any twigs or branches or dry leaves. I don’t want to give myself away. Not until I know what I’m dealing with.
