Page 19 of There Are No Saints

I look around wildly, paranoid that I’m going to see that massive frame hurtling toward me once more.

I see nothing. Only bare ground and the tree line behind me.

I need to get my feet free.

I yank off the stupid stripper shoes, then I look around for a rock with a sharp edge. I try to hack the ties around my ankles, but the rock is slippery in my hand, and I only succeed in hitting my shin, taking out a chunk of flesh.

Gritting my teeth, I retrieve the hateful duct tape and use it to wrap my left wrist, which is bleeding hardest.

Fuck, I don’t know how much time I have left. My vision tilts every time I move my head.

I wipe my palms off on my bare thighs, leaving dark streaks, then I try again. This time I saw through the ties. Pushing off from the dirt, I try to stand.

My legs are completely asleep, as numb as if they were made of putty. I collapse and fall hard to the ground, agonizing sparks shooting up and down my limbs.

Sobbing quietly, I massage the life back into my legs.

I’m not dying here. I’m not fucking doing it.

When I can feel my feet once more, at least a little, I push myself up. Wobbling like a newborn giraffe, I manage to stand.

Then I start to run.

I’m stumbling and lurching, the rough ground cutting the swollen soles of my feet.

The ground pitches beneath me like the deck of a ship.

Every step jolts my body, jolts my jaw, rattles my brain around inside my skull. Blood patters down from my right wrist. I clamp my filthy hand over the wound as I run.

I don’t know how far I’ll have to go.

A cold voice in my head whispers,If it’s more than a mile, you won’t make it. You might not make it another hundred feet. You’re going to pass out any second.

“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter out loud. “I’ll run all night if I have to.”

Rationally, I know that’s impossible. I’m literally at death’s door. Black spots bloom in front of my eyes, disappearing only when I press hard on my own wrist, relying on pain to jolt me awake over and over.

Twice I fall, and the second time I almost don’t get up. The ground feels soft and pillowy, my jaw no longer aching. A warm drowsiness tranquilizes me. It whispers,Stay here and rest awhile. You can get up again after you sleep.

Sleeping means dying. That’s the one thing I know for certain.

With a strangled sob, I force myself up again.

I’ve gotten turned around in the fall. I’m not sure which direction is forward, and which is the way I came.

I take two steps, reeling and confused, almost missing a dark splotch on the side of the path. Blood. My blood. I left a trail like Hansel and Gretel, marking the way I came. Only I have no intention of following it back.

Giggling hysterically, I turn around, striking out fresh once more.

This time, the voice that speaks to me is crystal clear on the night air, as alive as if she were speaking directly into my ear.

I told you this would happen.

I stop and vomit next to the path. I don’t have much in my stomach—what comes out is thin and yellowish, burning like acid.

My mother often has that effect on me.

You go out dressed like that, what did you think was going to happen?

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