Page 27 of Wed By the Lumberjack

He lifts me up again and I brace for the impact as he slams me back down so hard the table’s legs groan in protest.

“I knew you were all bark and no bite. Look. You aren’t even trying–”

One second Douglas is on me and the next, I’m covered in whiskey and glass. I grabbed the bottleneck and swung it at Douglas's temple with all my might.

As I roll over and drop onto the flamingo area rug near Douglas’ unconscious and bleeding body, I can’t help but feel like an eternity of bottled-up anger has finally been unleashed.

I look at the broken neck bottle in my hand now, all jagged and covered in red like bloody teeth.

So I did have a bite, and it was fucking sharp.

I’m about to grab the kitchen phone and ring the police when the smell of smoke captures my attention, then the glow of embers from Douglas’s pile of cigarettes on the rug.

One second it’s nothing more than a tiny patch of orange, and the next it’s a full-on flame ripping across the carpet to the whiskey-soaked wet spots.

The scream that tears from my throat as the flames quadruple in size once they hit the liquor sounds alien even to my own ears. I watch them transfixed, too stunned to move as they dance to the hardwood and then lick at the lacy living room curtains.

It’s only when they climb up to the glass pane and I’m able to see my reflection in it do I jolt back to reality.

Grabbing Douglas’ bony wrists, I pull him off the carpet a second before the flames touch his pants.

I don’t stop dragging him until I’m at the front door, through it, and onto the dirt driveway.

When the flames burst through the exterior wall, I’m once again frozen until the rain, the dreary rain I hated for ruining Gran’s brief ceremony, intensifies as if the heavens know how badly I need them, then douses the flames.

I stand rooted to the spot as I watch the last ember go out as quickly as it popped into existence. When it disappears I find myself gazing down at Douglas. The rain’s washing away the blood oozing at his temple, but it barely disappears before it’s back again, trickling down his slack face.

I should check to see if he’s breathing.

But I don’t.

Panic grips me as I stare from him to the ruined cottage I hadn’t managed to take care of for a single day since Gran’s departure.

What have I done?

What have I–

I slump against Gran’s truck. The one she hadn’t been able to drive in five years, and the one I drove to work if I could convince it to start in the morning.

As I cling desperately to its patch-covered side, it’s like I’m seeing it for the very first time. Like, for once, I’m not seeing it as a headache, but as a solution.

If Douglas is right, and he is the true owner of the cabin, I’d just burnt it down after knocking him out. Or that's what it'd look like anyway. And if he survives, it’s not safe for me here anymore.

If I called the police, who would they believe? Me or the bloody, unconscious man with a head wound?

I could call and find out. Or I could leave.

Now.

Running back into the house, I grab everything I can from my bedroom and shove it into three duffel bags before grabbing the truck's keys from a hook near the splintered front door.

As the truck roars to life, I don't know where I’m going. Just that I’m getting far away from here.

Gran’s gone and so is my sanctuary.

***

“Dixie!” Heath’s voice calls over my shoulder, jarring me back to the present.

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