Page 25 of Like a Hurricane

Every night after that, whenever I turned the lights off, I would have flashbacks, feel the blood on my skin and I’d wake up screaming. So, I stopped turning the lights off.

And have done that ever since.

My father’s blood had splattered across my face when he was shot and shakily, I look down at my hands, finding rusty stains under my nails. I have to swallow down the need to vomit. I needed to take stock of my surroundings, figure out where I was and how I got here.

Had the Ware’s come and taken me? I remember a boat.

It rocked under my feet when I tried to stand up after waking in the tiniest room I’d ever been in. The bed was narrow, and the sheets were scratching and god, the smell was fucking awful. Like fish, salt and metal.

I’d gripped whatever I could reach and made my way to a narrow set of steps and hauled myself up them, confused and dazed, and when I reached the top, I was hit in the face by bitter cold air, the wind whipping at my hair and trying to topple me back down the stairs.

And then I saw him.

Everett fucking Avery.

He was there at the restaurant too and on the boat. He was the source of every nightmare of recent. And he’d lunged at me, stabbing something into my neck. The fatigue had taken purchase immediately after whatever drug he’d just forced into me, and he’d knocked me out again.

And now I am here.

He kidnapped me.

Everett kidnapped me.

Oh. My. God.

I needed to stay calm but that was really fucking hard when I had no idea where I was, and a goddamnmadmanhad kidnapped me. I was still in my hospital gown; the drugs were still wreaking havoc on my system, and I didn’t know where he was.

Was he here? If I opened this door, is he going to be waiting for me?

Slowly, I sit up and place one leg on the floor, trying to keep it as light as I can. I didn’t want to stand on any creaky floorboards that could make him aware that I’m awake but once both feet are on the floor, I sweep my gaze around the room. It’s all wood, log walls with some minimalistic artwork of dramatic cliffsides and stormy seas.

The bed is a small double, with piles of blankets and pillows. A single dresser with drawers and a mirror is up against one wall, and a wardrobe to match sits close by. There’s space for a person to stand width ways around every side of the bed but not much more than that. I creep to the window, slow, steady, quiet, and peak outside to find trees and snow and that’s all.

Just miles and miles of pines that stretch into a grey sky that is unleashing more snow. It appeared we were on some kind of slope and grey, sharp rocks jut out from the blanket of white on the ground but there was no real way to determine how deep the snow was.

I try to open the window but find it stiff with age, unable to open more than a few inches but with that small crack, sound filters in and the first thing I hear is the unmistakable sound of waves crashing on rocks.

Closing the window as softly as I can, I turn back and head to the door, pressing my ear to it but when I hear nothing from the other side, I decide to open it just a small amount.

I can hear a coffee machine immediately, making a fresh cup and the sizzle of something cooking in a pan.

I wasn’t alone.

I brave opening it some more to peer out into the hall. Wherever we were was small enough that I could see all the way to the front door. The walls blocked whatever was before that, but I assumed it was a kitchen and living area.

There were no creaky floorboards so far, and mixed in with the smell of bacon and coffee was the distinct aroma of cleaning products and logs burning. Creeping towards that noise and smell, I instantly freeze when I see his back.

Shirtless with just a pair of grey sweats hanging from his narrow hips, he’s facing away from me, hands working over the stove as he cooks. I do a sweep of the room, the kitchen counter is littered with fruit, bread, pots and pans, a disarray of different things all mashed together as if someone had upturned several bags all at the same time. But I was eyeing that heavy looking iron skillet, still brand new with the sticky label right in the middle of it.

I lunge for it, wrapping my hand firmly around the handle but the rest of the items clatter to the floor, eggs cracking open and grapes rolling.

Everett twists around to me at the same time I swing, the skillet hitting him across the cheek. He twists and hits the counter, going down hard and I don’t think, I just run.

I keep the pan as my weapon of choice, leaping into the snow, the cold and wet not even registering as adrenaline propels me forward.

Instinct told me I needed to go down, I just had to battle this snow to do so, and it wasthick.It came up to just below my knees, some spots even higher and I’m drenched in icy water in no time, skin reddening as the ice bites at my body, melting into freezing water that soaks my clothes and numbs my toes.

But I keep going. I keep battling because the other option was to go back to that cabin with the man that kidnapped me. The man that clearly has some part to play in my father’s murder.

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