Unnatural Instinct: Free

6.

You find it very hard not to lose control. All you want to do is scream and throw yourself against the ground. It isn't fair. It isn't fair!

As you make your way back down the path all you can do is focus on your footsteps, the length of your strides, the sway of your arms. Vaguely, you realise people are greeting you as they pass, and vaguely you greet them back, outwardly content, though you grit your teeth behind your lips as the blood surges in your veins and pounds at the back of your head.

You hate this place and you hate everyone in it. You wish it could just burn to the ground.

Your skirts stick to your legs. His semen has cooled now but it hasn't completely dried out yet—and you can smell it. You can smell him all over you. Clapping a hand to your mouth, you swallow down a swell of vomit. There's nothing worse than the thought of having him inside you.

Why is it affecting you so badly now? It's certainly far from the first time he's abused you. It must be because time is ticking away. When you'd first learned about your union it had been months ago. The wedding seemed so far away. Now, it's only weeks. The days and minutes are rushing by like water in a rushing stream and there's nothing you can do about it.

Soon, you'll be in his arms, in his bed—every terrible night.

You clench your fists as tears blur your eyes. It isn't fair! Just because you're a woman. What made men think they had a right to your life, to your future?

You're blinking rapidly now, too rapidly. People will notice your tears and wonder. They might even start to ask questions. Picking up the pace, you drop your face and watch as your tears dribble onto the ground.

Surely, there must be some other way. Surely, you can do something!

But what?

As you look down between your feet you catch sight of your wrists and suddenly think that death might not be such a bad thing. You trace your eyes over the long veins just at the base of your hands. You have any number of sharp knives. You could do it quickly. Surely, it would be less painful than a lifetime of dealing with Derrick.

But what about afterwards? What about hell? You'll go to hell. Trapped in the fires, burning for eternity. And who knows what else might happen to you there. Demons would be far worse than Derrick. The things they might do to you.

Quickly, you smooth out your sleeves, making sure they completely cover your arms.

A stupid idea.

What if you just said no? What could they do? Many terrible things. Anything they wanted. The worst thing they could do is lock you up in the detention shelter. Would they torture you into submission? They've done it before. You'll never forget Wanda ... Once a free-spirited, intelligent woman who didn't want to marry, now a submissive housewife who barely has the strength to meet your eye. You'll never forget the screaming.

You shiver so hard you bite your lip.

You lift your face as you get closer to your home and you suddenly realise that you've reached the level of the detention shelter. Abruptly, you stop. Nobody is guarding the entrance, the door locked, the windows barred. You can imagine the monster curled up in a ball on the floor.

A startling thought occurs to you—wings. He has wings! If only you had a set, you could fly away from here. You would fly into the Goddamn burning sun if you had to.

Wings. He might be weak but he's big. All that rippling muscle. All that dormant strength. His huge frame. All that ferocity just waiting to be unleashed.

It could be yours.

You flush with excitement. The glare of the sun beating on your head makes you sweat behind the ears. Your hands are trembling as you brush the hair out of your face. Could you do it? Is it possible?

But what about Derrick? He has the keys. Pfff. Derrick is easy—and stupid. More muscle than brain. All you need is a little courage. And what about the monster himself? He might be too weak. He might not want your help. He may even murder you on the spot just as you release his chains. With his teeth. With those claws on his wings. Or maybe he'll just wring your neck. The thought doesn't fill you with dread as much as it should.

It doesn't feel so bad when pitted against a lifetime with Derrick.

Your heart is pounding. You somehow feel lighter, like a great weight has lifted from your shoulders. You don't realise you're standing in the middle of the path, staring like a fool at the barred door until someone calls your name.

With a start, you quickly hustle back home, your head down, clinging at your arms.

When you reach home, you step inside with a sigh. As a single woman your hut is only small, containing a living room, a bedroom and a small kitchen. Outside sits the outhouse amid a small backyard bordered by a low picket fence that backs onto the forest. As much as your little home is small and plain, it's yours and you love it. But it won't be yours for long. Once Derrick has his claws in you, all of this, all that you've made of your life, will be his too.

You won't even be able to keep your own name. Once you're married you'll be Mrs Derrick Summers.

Mrs Derrick Summers. You'll have to sign it on every document. Accept mail with the same dreadful lettering. Even those in the village will start calling you by it. It'll be as though you've been completely subsumed into Derrick. As though you're merely an extension of his body. You'll vanish completely. Only there to clean his house and bear his children.

Only to be seen, not heard.

Tears are swelling in your eyes as you stand in the middle of the room, gazing through the window. You glimpse the detention shelter in the distance. You suck your tears back.

No way. No how.

It won't happen. You won't let it happen. You won't simply vanish. There are things that you can do. That you can try. And if you fail—well, you will just have to meet the consequences head on.

All you need do is be brave.

You fist your hands at your sides, raring to go, your heart pounding, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

But first thing's first—you've got to have a wash and dispose of your disgusting skirts.